Genesis of a Villain
by AngelOfDarkness1959
Summary: A look at the events that shaped the villains we love to hate.
1. Queen Grimhilde

IT IS ALIVE! *Lightning flash*

Barely. I think I came close to coughing up blood trying to write this, but it's all worth it now. And now all my strange theories come into light. Requests will be taken, but please no Pixar or TV villains.

**Disclaimer:** Do any of you have recurring nightmares involving the heroes being brutally killed by the villains? No? Then I guess I don't own Disney.

* * *

><p>Grimhilde Fairchild pulled up the attic ladder, being very careful not to look down. She had always hated heights, even small ones like this. When that was done, the six-year-old stood up, brushed some of the dust off of her faded gray dress, and looked around. Buried amongst the accumulated clutter of the years past, she spotted a dark blue trunk. Her envy-green eyes brightened at the sight, and she picked her way around everything else to get to it. Engraved on the front in gold letters was this:<p>

_Lucinda Rose Fairchild  
>Loved By All<br>May You Rest In Peace_

Grimhilde ran her hand over the words once, a wistful look on her face, then lifted up the lid of the unlocked truck. There were only two items inside – an ornate silver hand mirror and a small jewelry box – but to her, they were priceless. She picked up the jewelry box and held it up to examine more closely. It was painted rose-red, with thick blue and green swirls on the front and a golden clasp that resembled a sword spearing a heart. Grimhilde started to open it and caught sight of her reflection in the mirror.

In her mind's eye, Grimhilde saw her young face age, becoming that of the portrait that stared down at her in her father's workshop. The face of her mother. The thought made the little smile that had formed on her face leave abruptly. Lucinda had been dead for six years now but still it seemed impossible for her daughter to step out of her shadow.

Suddenly, a hand clasped Grimhilde's shoulder and a voice asked, "What are you doing here?"

This quiet rumble made her gasp. She nearly dropped the jewelry box as she whirled around and found her father standing there, his eyes fixed on her.

Though Edmund Fairchild was a man of medium height and build, in the eyes of his daughter he was a giant. He had thick raven hair similar to hers, though his never seemed to be tidy, and ice-blue eyes that always seemed to be reproaching her for the things she had done, both in the past and the present.

He caught sight of the jewelry box in her tiny hands, and his eyes narrowed further.

"You're not allowed to be up here, and you're certainly not supposed to go through your mother's things. You know that, Grimhilde."

Grimhilde ducked her head, unable to meet his eyes. Edmund had not yelled – she could not ever remember hearing him yell – but somehow this quiet disappointment was ten times worse.

"I'm sorry, Father," she said softly. "I just wanted…" She trailed off. What _had_ she wanted? She wasn't sure anymore. "I'm sorry."

When she dared to raise her eyes, Edmund was giving her a hard look. Wordlessly, he held his hands out, and Grimhilde reluctantly handed him the box. He placed it back in the trunk with a tenderness that made Grimhilde's heart ache. From his pocket, he pulled a gold-colored key and swiftly locked it up. When he spoke again, it was barely above a whisper.

"She died to give you life. Would it be too much to ask that you respect her privacy?"

"I'm _sorry_," Grimhilde repeated, her eyes wide and pleading for forgiveness.

There was a long pause, during which father and daughter stood staring at each other.

"It's late," Edmund finally said. "Get to bed."

"Yes, Father," Grimhilde replied. "Goodnight."

When there was no response, she quickly started toward the ladder, hoping he wouldn't be able to see the tears in her eyes.

* * *

><p>"Grimhilde? Grimhilde!"<p>

"Yes, Father?" Grimhilde hurried towards the sound of Edmund's voice. She found him at the front of his shop, clad in a long black coat and a hat.

"I must go into town for a bit," he said. "I trust you can take care of things until I get back."

"Of course, Father."

Edmund gave her a nod and with that he was gone. After about five minutes, Grimhilde grew bored. It was a very slow day; not a single customer to be had. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in one of her father's many mirrors and instinctively moved closer to see it better.

Fourteen years had gone by since Edmund had caught her looking through her mother's trunk, and she was now twenty years old. Her porcelain skin was clear, her black curls flowed past her shoulders, and her green eyes shined with light.

Women who had known Grimhilde's mother were prone to cooing about how much she looked like her (always out of earshot of Edmund, of course). She had many admirers, but Edmund always discouraged them from doing anything further. He seemed utterly determined to keep her alone forever. At times, Grimhilde wondered if it was a form of revenge to make up for the loss of Lucinda.

A small giggle distracted Grimhilde from her musings. She looked out the shop's tiny window and saw a young girl of about four playing outside. At the sight of her, Grimhilde felt a strange tug at her heart. She adored children, hoped to someday have one herself, but this little girl was easily the most beautiful child – the most beautiful _person_ – she had ever seen. She had black hair like Grimhilde's, but hers was wavy and much shorter, only chin-length. Her eyes were brown with a sparkle of mischief and delight. Her lips were a startling shade of red and set in the happiest smile Grimhilde had ever seen. It was the sort of smile that made you want to smile back, no matter what kind of mood you were in.

But wait. Grimhilde paused and looked closer. The girl seemed to be alone. Where were her parents? Grimhilde stepped outside and called out to the girl, whose smile widened at the prospect of a new friend.

"Hello, there!" she said brightly.

"Hello, yourself," Grimhilde replied. She suddenly realized that she had never seen this child before. "Why are you alone? Is your family new to the village?"

The girl giggled and shook her head.

"Oh no. I don't live here. My father is here to finish arrangements." The girl examined Grimhilde more closely. "You're very beautiful," she declared.

Grimhilde blushed, feeling a smile tug at the corners of her lips. "Why, thank you, little one." It did not escape her notice that the child had not answered her first question.

"What's your name?"

"Grimhilde," she replied. "And yours?"

"Oh, how silly of me." The girl smiled and held her hand out. "I'm Snow White."

Grimhilde, who had been about to shake the child's hand, froze.

"S-Snow White?" she repeated. "The princess?"

"Yes." Snow White looked confused by Grimhilde's sudden change in manner. "Is there something wrong?"

"No, of course not, it's just…" Grimhilde found herself resisting the urge to curtsy. "My father and I have never had royalty in our shop before."

"Oh." Snow White seemed satisfied with this answer. "Well, there's a first time for everything, I suppose."

"Snow White!"

Startled, both Grimhilde and Snow White turned at the shout. Standing at the door were two other people, a well-built, brown-haired man and a redheaded woman. Grimhilde immediately recognized the man as King Henry, Snow White's father, and assumed the woman was her nurse.

Grimhilde became painfully aware of how her clothes looked, ragged and worn-down from years of hard work. This was accented by the finery of the royals; even the nurse was dressed more nicely than she was.

"Thank heaven we found you, child!" Henry exclaimed. "What were you thinking, running away from Atarah like that?"

The sparkle seemed to drain from Snow White's lively eyes at the scolding. She shuffled her small feet and looked awkwardly at the ground.

"I'm sorry, Papa," she said quietly. "I just wanted to talk to the pretty lady."

At this, Henry turned towards Grimhilde as though noticing her for the first time.

"Thank you for entertaining my daughter," he said. "My apologies if she has bothered you."

"Oh, no… not at all, Your Majesty." This time Grimhilde did curtsy, low and deep, as was the custom.

"Well, that's a relief. It would be a crime for annoyance to mar your pretty face."

Grimhilde's blush darkened. Her lips parted in an attempt to speak but no words came out.

"I only wish I could make it up to you." Henry paused, then snapped his fingers. "I've got it. I'm holding a ball tonight and I'd appreciate it if you could attend."

"Oh, Your Highness, I – I couldn't. My father –"

"Nonsense." Henry's voice was smooth as glass. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

He smiled as he spoke, but Grimhilde could see that it did not reach his eyes. There was something almost… dangerous about them.

Snow White looked up, her own jewel-bright eyes wide, and pleaded, "Oh please say you'll come, Grimhilde."

Under the weight of the child's gaze, Grimhilde found she couldn't refuse.

"I'll have my carriage pick you up at eight o'clock," Henry promised. He reached over and took Snow White's hand, which looked particularly tiny in the grip of his large one.

"Goodbye, Grimhilde!" Snow White called brightly, waving with her free hand. "See you tonight!"

* * *

><p>Four and a half hours later, Grimhilde stood in front of a full-length mirror, wearing a silky red dress and anxiously preening herself for a final time. She could hardly believe her luck. She was going to a ball! She hadn't been to any kind of party since she was a little girl, thanks to Edmund; he had initially resisted allowing her to attend the ball as well but even he could not ignore the will of the king.<p>

At the thought of Henry, Grimhilde paused in the midst of putting the finishing touches on her hair. She had been wondering about his intentions ever since he left her father's shop. There had been a look in his eyes that reminded her of how Edmund looked at the portrait of Lucinda. And everyone knew he had been looking for a wife since the death of Snow White's mother, Queen Anna.

_Don't flatter yourself,_ a snide voice in Grimhilde's head said. _It's like he said – he wants to repay you for playing with Snow White._

Grimhilde was about to go downstairs when she heard a knock at her door. She frowned; it could only be Edmund, but what could he possibly want?

"Come in," she called in a hesitant voice. Edmund entered, raising his eyebrow at Grimhilde's dress.

"Where did you get that?"

"I borrowed it." Grimhilde tried and failed to keep the smug note of triumph from her voice. Edmund had thought that she would be unable to attend due to her lack of proper clothing.

"I see." Edmund's eyes seemed to soften as he looked his daughter up and down. "You look beautiful."

Grimhilde stared at him, unable to believe what her ears were hearing. He had never said that before. Ever.

"I have something for you." From the folds of his cloak, Edmund pulled a small, familiar box. Grimhilde's eyes widened in recognition – it was Lucinda's jewelry box. Up close it was even more beautiful than Grimhilde remembered.

"This belonged to your mother," Edmund continued, placing the box on her vanity table. Carefully, he drew from it a necklace. It was magnificent, a ruby pendant set in gold and supported by a thin chain of the same metal.

"I – thank you," Grimhilde whispered. Edmund shrugged, not seeming to realize how much this meant to his daughter.

"She always intended to give it to you," he said. "But… well…" He trailed off awkwardly and gestured for Grimhilde to come closer before slipping it around her neck.

Grimhilde looked at her reflection in the mirror and watched surprise creep across her face. She had always been able to see the resemblance between herself and Lucinda before but now it was almost as though her portrait had come to life.

As though he had read her mind, Edmund murmured, "You look just like her." His blue eyes, usually so hard and removed, were filled with a light Grimhilde had never seen. The sight in turn filled Grimhilde with a warmth she had never before felt. For once, her father was being more than a provider of food and lodging.

"Father, I –"

From outside, there was a faint clatter of hooves. Frowning, Edmund went to Grimhilde's small window and peered outside. Almost immediately, the light in his eyes faded.

"The carriage is here," he said. "I'll see you when you come home."

And before Grimhilde could reply, he turned sharply and exited the room, giving the door a rather vindictive slam as he did.

* * *

><p>The ride to the castle was a surprisingly short one, and it gave Grimhilde no time to try to quell the butterflies that had begun batting around in her stomach. She tried to take her mind off of them by focusing her attention on the castle itself. It was made of white marble that gleamed in the moonlight. It was a truly breathtaking sight.<p>

She was escorted by a rather burly man who introduced himself as Humbert before dropping into silence. He seemed to sense her nerves, though, for he paused to give her a reassuring smile when they had reached the entrance. Grimhilde managed to return the smile, took a deep breath, and pushed open the heavy wooden door. The ballroom was filled with more men and women than Grimhilde had ever seen in her life, wearing finely tailored tunics and dresses that reflected their high society statuses and dancing gracefully.

Suddenly feeling self-conscience and out of place, Grimhilde carefully made her way around the ballroom, her green eyes searching for Snow White or Henry – any sort of familiar face. From across the room, there was a sudden flash of blue, and the next thing Grimhilde felt was a small weight around her waist.

"Grimhilde!" a small voice Grimhilde immediately recognized as belonging to Snow White squealed. "You're here, you're here!"

"Hello, Snow White." Grimhilde awkwardly bent down to hug her back. "It's nice to see you, too."

Snow White pulled away and looked up at her, beaming. She was wearing a magnificent dress of the brightest blue.

"Snow White!" Coming from behind the little princess was her nurse, Atarah, looking distressed. "Now really, child, you can't just run off whenever you feel like it, you'll get into trouble again…" She trailed off when she saw Grimhilde, and her blue eyes widened in something akin to horror.

This confused Grimhilde; had she done something to upset her somehow? If so, she didn't have a clue what it was.

"Miss." Both Atarah's voice and her posture stiffened noticeably.

"Hello." Now very uncomfortable, Grimhilde offered her hand to be shaken.

Atarah took it, looked around as though trying to see if anyone was watching them, and forced a smile onto her face.

"The king has been expecting you," she said. "Shall I take you to him?" Without waiting for an answer, she took Grimhilde by the hand and led her to the other side of the room where Henry was waiting, dressed in a black tunic and pants.

"Ah, Grimhilde." Henry smiled and took her hand. "You look lovely."

"T-Thank you, Your Majesty."

"Henry, please." He glanced towards Atarah, who stood a little way off, looking unsure. "Atarah, why don't you go and enjoy the party, hmm?"

"But Your Majesty, Snow White –"

"Will stay with us. Unless you object, Grimhilde?"

"Not at all," Grimhilde replied, smiling at little Snow White.

"Well…" Atarah hesitated, shifting from foot to foot. Henry raised an eyebrow, and Grimhilde was startled to see his face momentarily darken in an expression of anger that seemed almost primal. She stole an anxious glance down at Snow White to see if she had noticed, but the child was busy watching the dancers. "All right, then." And with a curtsy, Atarah was gone. Grimhilde almost wished she wouldn't go.

But when Henry turned back to her, his face was completely composed and normal, leading her to wonder if she had really seen what she had thought. Perhaps it had just been a trick of the light.

"Can I tempt you with a dance?" he asked. Before Grimhilde could object, Henry took her hand and led her into the heart of the dancing.

"I'm not very good," Grimhilde warned him.

"That's all right." The music picked up again, and she found it surprisingly easy to simply lose herself in it. Once she did, her movements became more fluid, more graceful, and soon she became aware that most of the partygoers were watching her; some were whispering to their partners.

Grimhilde's mind suddenly wandered back to its earlier thoughts regarding Henry and the late Queen Anna. They did not seem very far-fetched now. When the dance ended, Henry led Grimhilde to the edge of the dance floor.

"I thought you said you couldn't dance," he observed, looking amused.

"I thought I couldn't either," she replied, straightening her hair and dress. "But I suppose it's been a while since I last did." Her attention shifted to Snow White, standing just a little ways away, twirling around in circles in a strange and solitary dance. "I wonder, would you mind if I entertained your daughter for a few moments?"

"I'm afraid it's time for her to go to bed," Henry replied.

"Oh." Grimhilde tried not to show how disappointed she was.

"Well, perhaps, if you would like, I could arrange a meeting tomorrow."

Grimhilde blinked. The idea sounded so perfect. _Too_ perfect. Much too perfect for someone like her.

"Your Majesty, I hope you won't think me rude, but may I ask why?"

Henry smiled at her.

"I'll be frank with you, Grimhilde," he said. "You may find this hard to believe, but Snow White is usually quite shy around strangers. I don't believe she has never become so attached to someone in such a short space of time. Not that I blame her, of course," he added, smirking a bit when Grimhilde blushed. "I suppose what I'm trying to say is that I'd like to get to know you better as well."

Grimhilde could not help but feel immensely flattered.

"How could I refuse?"

* * *

><p>A month had passed since the ball, and Grimhilde became a frequent visitor to the castle. She grew close to its inhabitants, particularly Snow White, Henry, and even Humbert, who she had learned was Henry's huntsman. In fact, the only person who did not seem to like her was Atarah, who seemed to vanish whenever she was around.<p>

"She stares at me as though I were on my deathbed," Grimhilde complained, thinking of Atarah's haunting eyes. She sat on a marble bench in the castle's garden, with Henry beside her.

"Atarah was a very good friend of Anna's," Henry told her. "I think this is her way of trying to remain loyal." He shifted his weight. "Let's not talk about her anymore. Do you like it here, Grimhilde?"

"Yes." Grimhilde nodded. "The castle has become like a second home to me." Even with Atarah, it was better to be here than with her father. After the ball, Edmund had fallen back into his usual routine of ignoring Grimhilde unless she made a mistake or he needed something done. "It's the only place I feel loved."

"I'm glad to hear you say that." Henry turned to face her completely. "May I confess something?"

"Of course."

Henry took her hand in his. Grimhilde felt her face grow warmer.

"You say that the castle is the only place you feel loved. Similarly, since Anna's death, _you_ are the only woman I have loved." When Grimhilde did not reply (she was too shocked), Henry continued, "I know that it is customary to have known each other for a longer period of time before entering any sort of union, but I also know that to do so would only delay the inevitable. Will you marry me, Grimhilde?"

"Yes," Grimhilde breathed when she had once again found her voice. "Yes, of course."

She did not have to think about it for even a second. Now perhaps she could finally be happy, here with people who loved her.

And she was happy indeed. For two months.

* * *

><p>Grimhilde awoke to what sounded like crying. She sat up in her bed and looked around. She was alone; Henry had mentioned going hunting with Humbert, and he had apparently followed through. Brushing pieces of black hair out of her face, Grimhilde listened harder. It <em>was<em> crying, and it sounded almost childlike. As far as Grimhilde knew, the only child in the castle was Snow White.

_Perhaps she had a nightmare,_ Grimhilde thought, rising from her bed and tugging a silk robe around her slender frame. She went down the hall to Snow White's bedroom.

"Snow White?" she called softly. "Snow White, are you –"

The words died in her throat when the child looked up and saw her. Snow White's sweet little face had been turned black and blue. Grimhilde put a hand to her mouth to stifle her gasp. Snow White tried to cover herself with her blankets, but Grimhilde pulled them back down and tilted her head up to face her.

"Snow White, what happened?" she asked, her voice soft and gentle. "Who did this to you?"

Snow White ducked her head and muttered something about trouble.

"You won't get in trouble, Snow White, I promise. Just tell me who did this, all right?" Grimhilde could not think of a single person who would lay a hand on the young princess.

Snow White's brown eyes met Grimhilde's green and she whispered, "Papa."

Grimhilde felt as though her body had been doused in ice-cold water. _Henry?_ She did not want to believe that it was possible, but looking at Snow White, she had no choice but to do so.

A thousand questions exploded in Grimhilde's brain, but for some reason what came out was, "Why did he do it?"

"I don't know." Snow White's voice sounded helpless, as though she were about to cry. A few seconds later, she did just that. Grimhilde pulled her into her lap and rocked her back and forth, trying as best as she could to comfort her. Anger bubbled in her veins as she looked down at Snow White's bruised face. The idea that she had married the man who had done that made her sick to her stomach.

"Stay here." Grimhilde stood up and started toward the door. Snow White's eyes widened as she realized what was going to happen.

"No!" She grabbed her hand and tried to pull her back. "No, you can't!"

"Snow White, let go." Grimhilde's voice was patient.

"But you _can't._"

"Let go," Grimhilde repeated. Snow White reluctantly released her hand, and she stormed down the hall and out of the castle, where she was met with Henry and Humbert saddling up their horses. She blinked, slightly surprised; she had fully intended to wait and confront him the moment he returned, but she hadn't thought he would still be here.

Grimhilde got over this quickly and advanced towards Henry, who turned from his conversation with Humbert when he heard her footsteps.

"Ah, come to see us off?"

"I saw what you did." Grimhilde's voice was tight and angry. Henry's ghost of a smile faded.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, Grimhilde."

"Don't play stupid!" she snarled. "I was just with Snow White. I saw what you did to her!"

At this, Henry's eyes began to flash dangerously.

"Humbert," he began in a low voice, "would you mind giving Grimhilde and I a moment alone?"

The huntsman's green eyes shifted nervously from the king to the queen and back again before he turned and led his horse away.

"What's the matter?" Grimhilde sneered once he was gone. "Doesn't Humbert know about you?"

"Now, look here." Henry took a step towards her, a hand on the dagger at his belt. Grimhilde flinched but stood her ground; if he thought he could intimidate her, he was sadly mistaken. Her anger had gifted her with a newfound courage.

"How could you?" she hissed. "She's a child. _Your_ child! What could she have possibly done to deserve that?"

It happened so quickly that if you were to blink, you would miss it. There was a flash of silver, and the next thing Grimhilde knew was a searing agony in her neck. With a cry of surprise and pain, she put a hand on her neck; it came away crimson.

"The same thing you are doing right now," Henry said coldly. "Being impudent."

"Impudent, am I?" Disgust welled up in Grimhilde's heart. She rose to her full height and, still covering her neck, slapped him across the face with her other hand. He recoiled, and Grimhilde was pleased to see that her nails had left four jagged scratches on his otherwise unmarred face. Henry's own hands now clenched into fists. For a moment it looked as though he was going to strike her again. It was not so, however; he merely turned and went in the direction Humbert had gone.

When he was out of sight, Grimhilde felt a pair of hands on her shoulders, and a voice murmured in her ear, "Come with me, my lady." Recognizing the voice as Atarah's, she allowed herself to be led back to Snow White's bedroom, where a washcloth, a basin of cool water, and bandages awaited her. The little princess herself had fallen back into an uneasy sleep.

"Snow White came to get me when you left," Atarah explained. She sat Grimhilde down on the bed and pressed the washcloth to her neck.

"Atarah, did you know about…?" Grimhilde trailed off, gesturing to Snow White. Atarah shook her head, blue eyes wide.

"I thought something wasn't right, but I never imagined _this._"

"So I suppose you wouldn't know why?" This unknown detail was threatening to drive Grimhilde mad.

"I might have an idea," Atarah said slowly. "When Anna was alive, she and the king talked about… producing an heir." She turned a light shade of pink and continued, "Apparently the princess isn't what he wanted."

"But – but she's a _child!_" Grimhilde protested. "How could he do that to her?"

"I don't know, my lady." Atarah placed a large bandage over Grimhilde's neck and took a step back. "There, that should do it. Come to me if it starts bleeding again."

"I will. Thank you, Atarah. For everything."

Atarah curtsied and exited the room, leaving Grimhilde alone with Snow White. Grimhilde looked down at the girl, feeling a kinship with her that she had never before known. They were more alike than she could have ever guessed. Betrayed by their fathers and motherless to boot.

But wait. That wasn't quite true anymore, was it? Snow White _did_ have a mother – technically, at least. _Her._ She had never thought of it before, but she was most likely the only maternal figure the child had ever known. Strange that it had never occurred to her before.

Snow White sighed and smiled in her sleep, and Grimhilde allowed herself to do the same. She had already decided what she was going to do. She would give Snow White the love which her own childhood had severely lacked. Slowly but surely, she would undo whatever damage Henry's abuse had inflicted upon her young mind.

* * *

><p>Grimhilde kept her vow. She spent the next few months as Snow White's constant companion. She took part in the child's games and told her stories – things she had seen mothers do back in her village. Slowly, Snow White began to open up to Grimhilde and show her how she saw things. For all her happy displays in public, Grimhilde found that a large part of the princess was a nervous little thing, especially when her father was nearby. In her mind, monsters could lurk around any and every corner and creep up on you when you least expected it.<p>

But there was another side to her as well, a more innocent side that Grimhilde tried her hardest to draw out. When Henry was not around, she became a happier girl, a girl who smiled at sunshiny days and talked to animals and sang little songs to herself. It was this part of Snow White that Grimhilde wanted to keep alive.

Snow White seemed to be happiest in the garden, surrounded by flowers, so one day Grimhilde suggested that they go find wildflowers in the forest. Snow White yelped in fear at the word "forest" and drew back, eyes wide.

"What's the matter, Snow White?"

"There are –" the child paused to swallow a nervous lump in her throat "– monsters in the forest!"

"Monsters?" Grimhilde raised an eyebrow and adjusted the balaclava she had taken to wearing. It prevented people from seeing the scar Henry's dagger had left on her delicate neck. "Wherever did you hear that?"

"Stories."

"Snow White, there are no monsters. Nothing in the forest will harm you."

"How do you know?"

"Because I won't let anything harm you."

Snow White looked at her strangely, and Grimhilde realized the child didn't believe her. She cupped her stepdaughter's face in her hands and brushed stray pieces of black hair from her face. The inky bruises had for the most part faded, but faint traces remained if you knew where to look.

"I promise."

Snow White nodded slowly. Grimhilde decided to take this as a "yes."

The next day the two went to a glade deep in the forest. Once Grimhilde had yet again reassured Snow White that there was nothing in the shadows waiting to grab her, the little girl allowed herself to relax and enjoy her new surroundings. In no time at all, she was smiling and holding an impressive bouquet in her hands. Sitting in the shade of a nearby tree, Grimhilde allowed herself to smile as well. The child's joy was contagious.

When she was satisfied with her work, Snow White wandered over to Grimhilde and presented her with the bouquet.

"These are beautiful, Snow White," Grimhilde praised her. She bent her head to inhale the flowers' sweet, perfumed scent. "Who are they for?"

"For you, Mama," Snow White replied in her innocent voice.

Grimhilde froze as the last word registered in her mind. Warmth for Snow White blossomed in her chest.

"Do you like them?" Snow White asked, nervous at her silence. Grimhilde leaned closer to kiss her forehead.

"I love them. Thank you, my dear." She stole a glance up at the sky. "It's getting late. We should go back to the castle before we are missed."

Snow White nodded reluctantly. "Can we come back tomorrow?" she asked with a hopeful glint in her brown eyes.

"Of course we can," Grimhilde reassured her, struggling to her feet. Her legs were stiff from sitting for so long.

A sudden, sharp jolt of pain echoed through her stomach, doubling her over with a faint cry. It passed as quickly as it had come.

"Mama, are you all right?" Snow White's eyes were round with anxiety.

"Yes, I'm fine." Grimhilde straightened up and noted that she would have to see the court physician when she and Snow White returned to the castle.

An hour later, Grimhilde sat on her bed while the physician examined her. The fingers of her right hand drummed nervously against the bedspread as she wondered what could be wrong with her. When she had stopped to think about it, Grimhilde had realized that she had been feeling off-color for some time. Most likely something she ate had made her sick. If not, she hoped it wasn't contagious. It wouldn't do for Snow White to fall ill.

Amazingly, however, the physician was smiling when he finished his examination. Grimhilde arched a thin, black eyebrow at the sight of it.

"Why do you smile so?"

"I merely wished to congratulate you, my queen," the physician replied. "You are with child."

Of all the answers Grimhilde had been expecting, that certainly wasn't one. Her wide green eyes drifted from the physician to her still-flat stomach and back again.

"Are you certain of that?"

"Quite certain," the physician said with a nod. He talked some more but Grimhilde didn't hear a word.

A mother. She was going to be a mother. Almost unconsciously, her hand gravitated towards her stomach and caressed it absentmindedly, her crimson lips stretching into a smile. With a "Thank you" to the physician, she rose and left the room to find Snow White.

* * *

><p>To say that Snow White was excited about the impending baby was like saying that winters in Speculum had a tendency to get chilly. She was positively beside herself with glee; often Grimhilde wondered which of them was looking forward to the birth more. Then again, the whole castle was pleased with the news; even Atarah could be found with a smile on her face. The only person who didn't seem happy was the child's father.<p>

Henry and Grimhilde had not so much as had a proper conversation since the night he had scarred her neck, and apparently the fact that they would soon be parents did not change their frosty relations. Not that Grimhilde minded; if it was at all possible, she wanted nothing to do with him and was grateful that he seemed to feel the same way.

"Mama, watch me!"

Snow White's voice startled Grimhilde from her musings. Looking up, she found that her stepdaughter, who had turned five during the course of the pregnancy, standing near the foot of the bed with her arms stretched out. When she saw that she had her stepmother's attention, Snow White started to dance, much in the way she had at the ball. Grimhilde smiled and applauded when the dance was finished. She had been on strict bed rest for the past three weeks, and Snow White was constantly coming up with new ways to keep her entertained.

"Here, Mama. This is from the garden." In Snow White's tiny hand lay a single, long-stemmed red rose. Grimhilde's smile widened at the sight of it.

"Oh, thank you, Snow White! Put it on the nightstand, and I'll have one of the servants get some water for it."

Snow White did as she was told, then snuggled against Grimhilde's side on the bed, one hand resting on her swollen stomach.

"Hello, Rose!" she said brightly. "It's Snow White."

Grimhilde giggled as Snow White began to babble happily about her day. She twirled the rose between her slim fingers, her mind wandering back to that day in the garden, three months ago…

"_What's the baby's name, Mama?"_

_Grimhilde thought for a moment before replying, "You know, I haven't thought about it, Snow White. What do you suggest?"_

_An uncharacteristically solemn expression crossed Snow White's face. She tapped her finger to her cheek and tilted her head up to meet Grimhilde's eyes._

"_Hmm. It has to mean something special."_

"_Does it now?" Grimhilde teased, amused by how seriously the child was taking this._

"_Yes," Snow White said with a sage nod. "Names have special meanings. I'm named for my skin."_

_This made Grimhilde think of the meaning behind her own name. Mask of battle._

_Well, you couldn't say it wasn't accurate._

"_Let me think." The only name that held any significance to her was Lucinda, and somehow it felt strange to use it. Grimhilde looked around at the garden's many flowers. Her eyes fell on a large rosebush close enough for her to touch._

_Roses._

_Rose._

_Lucinda Rose._

"_Rose," she murmured. Snow White looked up, her eyes bright._

"_Oh, Mama, that's a wonderful name!" She leaned forward so that her mouth was close to Grimhilde's stomach. "Hello, Rose. My name is Snow White. I'm your sister."_

"_Snow White, you do realize the child could be a boy as well, don't you?"_

_Snow White's smile dimmed a bit._

"_Oh." Clearly this hadn't occurred to her. "That would be okay too, I guess."_

_Grimhilde smiled and pulled her close…_

Suddenly, Grimhilde was stirred from her memory by a sharp pain in her side. She ignored it at first – she had been suffering from stomach cramps recently – but the pain continued. She felt a wetness run down her thighs, and her eyes widened in alarm.

Some of the older servants had told her that when she went into labor, she would know, and they had described exactly what was happening now.

"Mama, what's wrong?"

Grimhilde swallowed.

"Snow White." Grimhilde was surprised by how calm her voice was. "I need you to listen to me very carefully. Are you listening?" When Snow White nodded, she continued, "Go find Atarah or one of the servants, and tell them to get the physician. The baby's coming."

Snow White's eyes widened, but she did as Grimhilde had instructed. Almost an eternity later, Atarah appeared with the physician in tow. Atarah immediately took a place at Grimhilde's side and held her hand, murmuring softly into her ear. The words themselves were too soft to hear, but the light sound of her voice was comforting.

Twelve hours passed in this way. Twelve long, slow hours. By this point, Grimhilde's body was trembling uncontrollably and covered in sweat. She didn't know how much more of this she could take.

"Shh, my lady," Atarah soothed. "This will all be over soon. It's time to push."

If Grimhilde had been in pain before, it was nothing compared to this. It was as though she was being torn in half.

"Almost there," Atarah murmured. "Almost there, that's it."

Grimhilde pulled strength from some hidden place and managed to do what was needed. A gasp of relief left her lips when it was done. Exhausted though she was, Grimhilde sat up to see her child, but found nothing. The physician was gone as well. Confused, she turned to Atarah.

"What's happening?"

Atarah shook her head and dashed out of the room, eyes wide. When she returned a few minutes later, her face was pale and her lips were pressed together tightly. She seemed to be thinking very hard about what she was going to say, and Grimhilde felt a rush of dread. Was something wrong with her child?

"My lady," Atarah began. "I'm sorry – truly I am. But your daughter was stillborn."

Grimhilde could have sworn her heart stopped beating.

"W-What?" she managed to gasp out. "No, that's not possible! You must have made a mistake."

"There's no mistake," Atarah said softly. "I'm so sorry."

Grimhilde struggled to her feet, her only conscious thought to find Rose and show everyone that she was _not_ dead, but in fact perfectly fine and healthy.

The moment her feet touched the floor, Grimhilde was overcome by a rush of dizziness. The room began to spin, and she was aware of Atarah calling for her just before she hit the ground. Vaguely, she felt Atarah's hands putting her back into bed, heard her voice telling her to rest. Grimhilde suddenly found herself unable to move, unable to do anything but comply. Atarah watched her for a few moments before leaving the room, leaving Grimhilde alone with the terrible reality.

Rose was dead. Her child had died before she could properly live, before she could so much as take a breath. Oh, how Edmund would laugh if he knew.

"Now you know!" he would cry. "Now you know how I felt when you killed your mother!"

Grimhilde did not know for sure how long she lay there for, exhausted but unable to sleep. Time seemed to have slowed itself down, as though it was grieving for the dead princess. The stars were beginning to recede when she heard the knock at her door.

"Enter." Grimhilde winced at the sound of her own voice. It sounded like that of an old hag.

She watched as the knob turned and the door opened slowly to reveal little Snow White, clad in a long white nightgown that made her look rather like an angel. Even in the dim light, Grimhilde could see that her eyes were red-rimmed.

"Mama?" Snow White's voice was tentative.

"You should be asleep, Snow White," Grimhilde said softly in the same hag-like voice. Snow White shook her head.

"I couldn't." She crossed the room towards her stepmother's bed. Her sweet face was somber. After a few seconds of silence, Grimhilde held her arms out, and Snow White crawled into them, her head resting against Grimhilde's chest as Grimhilde rubbed her back absentmindedly.

She would never get to do this with Rose. She would never be able to hold her or kiss her or watch her grow. With these thoughts, a dam somewhere deep within Grimhilde burst. Burying her face in Snow White's ebony hair, she began to sob.

* * *

><p>The days turned to weeks, and the weeks to months. Grimhilde was surprised to find one day that it had been more than a year since Rose's birth and death. It didn't feel real. Hardly anything had felt real since that day. It was as if she had passed through time as a ghost supposedly passes through a wall.<p>

Grimhilde was at her vanity table applying makeup when she saw Henry's reflection in her mirror, standing in her doorway, and frowned. They had separate quarters, so why was he here?

"What do you want?"

"Am I forbidden to see my wife?"

"You've never been interested in it before."

"Putting on your makeup, I see," Henry continued as if Grimhilde hadn't spoken. "That's good, considering."

"Considering what?"

"Oh." Henry feigned surprise. "You mean you didn't know? And I took you to be intelligent."

In the back of her mind, Grimhilde knew he was just trying to bait her, but her curiosity was too great. "Considering _what?_" she repeated.

"Considering that you are loved purely because of your looks."

For a few seconds, Grimhilde was too shocked to speak. She turned to face him, her eyes flashing.

"You're wrong."

Henry raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure of that?"

"Yes. I am loved for other reasons."

"Really? I haven't been able to find any."

Grimhilde's eyes narrowed. "Leave," she demanded. Henry ignored her.

"All those people in your village, what about them, hmm? Do you think they would give you as much as a sideways glance if you weren't an exact replica of your mother? I myself know for a fact that my servants will do anything for a pretty face."

"I told you to leave."

"You know, I'm a little surprised you never figured this out before." It was clear that Henry was relishing every second of this. "After all, what other reason would your father have for keeping you with him?"

"_Enough!"_ Grimhilde rose, grabbed the closest thing she could find – a glass perfume bottle – and hurled it at Henry as hard as she could. He dodged it easily, and the bottle shattered against the wall behind him.

"You shouldn't have done that," he said coldly, the same voice he had used the night he scarred her neck.

"Get out." Grimhilde's voice trembled with rage. "I will not ask you again."

"Very well," Henry said with a stiff nod. "But when you're old and alone, I want you to remember this conversation." On that note, he turned and walked away.

Shaking, Grimhilde collapsed onto her vanity stool and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Henry's words echoed in her ears, but they were not the only ones.

"_Look at you, Grimhilde; you have your mother's eyes."_

"_Come here, Mary, doesn't Grimhilde have Lucinda's pretty face?"_

"_You're going to be quite the beauty when you're older, just like your mother."_

Grimhilde's heart sank. The highest compliment she had received growing up was that she looked like Lucinda. And had her beauty not been one of the first things both Snow White and Henry had commented on when they first met her?

_No! This is just what Henry wants – to make you feel bad about yourself. You can't fall for his mind games._

Deep in Grimhilde's subconscious, the first seeds of doubt began to sprout.

* * *

><p>"Snow White! Come quickly, before we freeze to death!"<p>

Giggling, the six-year-old princess ran across the snow-covered ground and into the castle's warmth. Grimhilde was shivering madly. How Snow White had managed to talk her into going out in this weather she would never know.

"Come on, Snow White," she said, brushing snowflakes out of the child's hair. "Let's get something to warm us up."

They went into one of the castle's dining halls and found two mugs of mulled cider sitting on the table, almost as if they were waiting for them.

Seeing Grimhilde, a servant approached them and said, "These are for you, your highnesses. The king thought you would need it when you came back inside."

An alarm went off in Grimhilde's head, but what harm could a little drink do? Snow White dashed to the cider and took a gulp. Grimhilde raised her mug to her lips but lost her grip and sent the contents into a nearby flower pot.

"Here, Mama, you can have some of mine." Snow White held her near-empty mug out. Grimhilde shook her head.

"No, you have it."

Snow White shrugged and downed the last of the cider. Grimhilde couldn't help but look back at the flowers.

Was it her imagination, or did they appear to be wilting?

* * *

><p>Later that night, Grimhilde found herself being shaken awake by Snow White.<p>

"Mama. Mama, wake up. Mama!"

With a small groan, Grimhilde propped herself up on her elbow and rubbed her eyes. "What's the matter?"

"I don't feel good," Snow White whimpered. Concerned, Grimhilde put a hand to her forehead. Its temperature was matched only by that of a fire.

"Go back to bed, Snow White, and I'll get some medicine for you."

"Okay." Snow White got as far as the door before crumbling to the ground in a heap.

"_Snow White!"_ Horrified, Grimhilde jumped up and ran to the unconscious child. There was a flash of dark red, and Atarah appeared, bent over Snow White.

"What's happened?"

"She has a fever – I told her – she just _fell_ –"

Atarah placed her fingers on Snow White's neck and opened one of her eyes, peering into it.

"She's still alive," she murmured, and Grimhilde sighed in relief.

"Atarah, get the physician –"

"There's no need." Atarah gathered Snow White in her arms and went to her bedroom, leaving a bewildered Grimhilde to follow after her.

"What do you mean, 'there's no need?'"

But Atarah didn't speak until they had reached Snow White's room and laid the child in her bed. Then she turned to Grimhilde, her eyes dark and troubled.

"My lady, you must listen to me very closely if Snow White is to live. Go to the dungeon and down the staircase to the left. There will be a door in front of you – go through it. Find a clear bottle filled with a blue liquid and bring it back here."

Grimhilde committed the instructions to memory and rushed to follow them. A surprise awaited her, however, when she went through the door Atarah had described.

There were beakers and bottles filled with multicolored liquids (potions?), some boiling over a flame, some sitting innocently off to the side. A large shelf held large, old-looking leather-bound books with strange titles like _Disguises_ and _Alchemy._ In the center of the room was a large black cauldron.

Grimhilde had stumbled upon some sort of laboratory.

For a moment, she was unable to do anything but stare in disbelief and awe. Then she remembered Snow White and frantically scoured the room for the blue-filled bottle. There was only one. She grabbed it and bolted for the stairs, praying she was not too late.

When she got closer to Snow White's bedroom, a plaintive whimper reached her ears.

"Atarah, where's Mama?"

"She's coming, Snow White, I promise."

"I want Mama."

"I'm here," Grimhilde said softly as she entered the room. Snow White's fair face was flushed red as a sunset, and her tiny body was sweat-soaked. Her heart aching for the child, Grimhilde gave her the bottle. "Drink this, dear. It will make you feel better."

Snow White did, scrunching up her nose slightly at the taste. Grimhilde turned back to Atarah.

"Is that all?" she asked.

"Yes." Atarah nodded. "It should help her to sleep as well." She shifted, suddenly looking a bit uncomfortable. "I'll leave you two alone then, shall I?"

Without waiting for an answer, she rose and left the room.

"Mama?" Grimhilde's attention was drawn back to Snow White. "Will you tell me a story, please?"

"Very well." Grimhilde racked her brain for a story, and after a few seconds, she came up with one. It was rather ridiculous, but Snow White was likely too tired to remember it; her eyes were already beginning to grow heavy. "The first thing you must know, Snow White, is that this story is a secret, so you must promise not to tell anyone."

"I promise," Snow White said through a yawn.

"Very well. Do you know the well in the courtyard?"

"Yes, I do."

"It's not an ordinary well. It's a wishing well."

"A wishing well?" Snow White's tired eyes widened with delight at the prospect. "Really?"

"Yes, my dear. If you make a wish into it, your wish just might come true."

Snow White looked puzzled.

"But how do you know if your wish will come true?" She was nearly asleep now.

"Your wish will echo in the well," Grimhilde explained just as Snow White's eyes shut and sleep took hold. She smiled faintly and kissed the child's forehead. Her fever had gone down dramatically.

"Is she asleep?"

Grimhilde jumped at the sound of Atarah's voice. She turned and found the red-haired nurse standing in the doorway. She'd never really left, then.

"Yes," Grimhilde replied, feeling a bit disturbed. A sudden thought occurred to her. "Atarah, how did you know what Snow White needed? And that laboratory… is that yours?"

"Yes. The previous court physician was my father." Atarah crossed herself before continuing, "He taught me all he knew of medicine. I use the laboratory you saw to brew my own remedies."

"Do you know what caused Snow White's illness?"

Atarah's blue eyes darkened. "I'm afraid it's not that simple, my lady."

"You don't know, then?"

"Oh I know what it was, but the princess didn't fall ill. She was poisoned."

The blood drained from Grimhilde's face. "Poisoned?" she repeated, dumbfounded.

"Yes. It was quite a potent one too. If Snow White hadn't gone to you when she did, she would be dead right now."

Grimhilde's eyes widened as a horrifying idea took hold of her. With a quick order to Atarah to stay with Snow White, she went back to the dining hall as fast as her feet would take her, hoping against hope that she was wrong. It was a hope that died when she reached the hall and saw what she had dreaded.

The flowers she had accidentally spilt her cider into were dead.

Just as she would be if she had drunk it.

"_You shouldn't have done that."_

"_The king thought you would need it when you came back inside."_

The king…

Grimhilde felt her head begin to spin. Dizzy and faint, she sank into a nearby chair and tried to calm her racing heart.

Henry had tried to kill them, and all because of the bottle she had thrown at him. He must have known that even if _she_ didn't take the bait, Snow White would, and her death would have been Grimhilde's punishment.

But Henry hadn't counted on Atarah and her laboratory, and so the child was safe.

_But for how long?_

As much as she would have loved to believe otherwise, Grimhilde knew that this was just the first attempt Henry would make on both her life and Snow White's.

"Good evening."

Speak of the devil.

"You!" Grimhilde could not remember ever being this angry, this enraged. "You vile beast!"

"That's a matter of opinion, wouldn't you say?"

"You will pay for this!" Grimhilde snarled. "I will make you pay if it's the last thing I do!"

"You haven't got a leg to stand on," Henry said coldly.

"I'll tell everyone –"

"And who do you think they will believe? Their king by blood or the queen by marriage?"

Grimhilde deflated ever so slightly.

"I thought as much." Henry smirked at her expression. "Now, this has all been very amusing, but it's late and I'd like to get some sleep. Goodnight."

"Come back here, you coward!"

Henry didn't even turn around. Grimhilde closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe slowly in an effort to regain control of her emotions. When she was calm once more, she found herself going back to Snow White's bedroom. The child slept soundly, with Atarah hovering nearby as she had been directed. Grimhilde took her place and found her mind wandering back to the poisoning.

There had to be some way to protect Snow White from Henry. But how? Perhaps she could take Snow White and leave Speculum – no, that wouldn't work. Henry would make it out like she had kidnapped the child and she would be arrested – and executed – quick as a wink.

At this point, only one thing was certain: as long as Henry was alive, neither Grimhilde nor Snow White was safe.

* * *

><p>Barely two months after the attack on Snow White, Speculum was shaken by a sudden, unexpected loss: that of their king.<p>

Henry's death was discovered by a servant in the early hours of the morning. It was thought at first that the cause was an illness similar to the one that took the life of his first wife, Queen Anna. A closer examination by the court physician, however, revealed the grisly truth.

The king's wine had been poisoned. This was murder.

The castle was placed on lockdown and sealed off – no one came in, no one went out. When this proved to be fruitless, the hunt for the murderer was expanded to the whole of Speculum, again without success. It was eventually decided that the mysterious poisoner had somehow managed to escape the kingdom entirely.

Only Grimhilde knew better.

* * *

><p>From the feather bed that had once belonged to Henry, Grimhilde watched as a small group of servants moved her possessions from her previous bedroom to this one. Joining them was little Snow White, who Grimhilde suspected was trying to avoid going to bed.<p>

More than once it had been noted how well she and Snow White had been holding up since Henry's premature death. Grimhilde would simply reply that she was putting on a brave face for Snow White, which was of course a lie. She had shed no tears for Henry, and if Snow White had, she didn't let on.

When everything had found a new home and Snow White was snug in her bed, Grimhilde's attention was drawn to a large tapestry near the bed. She did not know why – she had seen it before – but something about it made her look closer. It was elegantly woven and depicted some bloody battle. Grimhilde winced at the sight of it.

"Does this displease you, my lady?" Atarah inquired, her blue eyes drawn to the tapestry as well.

"Very much so."

At their queen's words, the servants moved to take it down. The tapestry soon revealed itself to be far more than a simple decoration, for when it was gone, a doorway-sized space was exposed. It was the opening to a tunnel of sorts.

After a second or two, Grimhilde stepped closer and tried to look inside, but the darkness made it too hard to see. She turned to the servants.

"Do any of you know where this goes?"

"No, Your Highness," one replied. "I believe I speak for all of us when I say we knew not of its existence." The other servants nodded in agreement.

"Well then, we'll find out now." Grimhilde's green eyes darted back to the tunnel. "Atarah, fetch some candles. You and I shall go."

The red-haired servant looked a bit startled to be singled out, but she did as she had been told.

The inside of the tunnel was pitch black, something the candles' feeble flames did little to help with. Moss and niter grew on the damp stone walls, making Grimhilde and Atarah shiver, and the many nicks and missing stones in the floor forced them to walk very slowly. After about five minutes of this, they came to the foot of a large, winding staircase.

"My lady, perhaps we should go back?" Atarah's voice rose questioningly, eyeing the stairs apprehensively. It was the first time either of them had spoken since they had entered the tunnel.

"Are you frightened, Atarah?" Grimhilde found it to be a tad amusing to imagine the very same woman who had been able to keep a level head during Snow White's poisoning trembling over a bit of darkness. Grimhilde herself could not recall ever being truly afraid of the dark. Her home had often been without light when she was a girl, and she had learned to find her way through it at a very early age.

"The darkness is nothing to be afraid of," Atarah said solemnly. "It is what the darkness hides that we must be wary of."

"If you feel that way, then you may go back," Grimhilde offered.

"I'll wait for you here, my lady."

With these words, Atarah dropped back into silence and watched Grimhilde navigate the stairs, which proved to be more difficult than she had expected. Eventually, the seemingly never-ending staircase gave way to a heavy mahogany door. Grimhilde raised an eyebrow upon seeing it.

_What are you hiding, Henry?_

She carefully approached the door and, finding it to be unlocked, pushed it open to reveal a large room that was empty save for one item. On the wall opposite the door hung a magnificent mirror. Golden snakes hissed out from the oval frame, as though they were protecting the crown positioned at the top. The glass had been polished so well that even in the darkness, Grimhilde could see everything behind her perfectly.

It was beautiful, there was no questioning that. But why go to the trouble of hiding it?

Suddenly tentative for reasons unknown, Grimhilde approached the mirror and saw her nervousness reflected back at her. Her fingers ran along the frame and received a light coating of dust. The mirror had been neglected recently, most likely due to Henry's death.

A flash of silver caught Grimhilde's eye. She bent down a bit and thought she saw something beneath the dust. She brushed it away and held her candle up to reveal words engraved on the frame in small print, a puzzling couplet of sorts.

"_Slave in the Magic Mirror_

_Come from the farthest space_

_Through wind and darkness I summon thee_

_Speak! Let me see thy face!"_

No sooner had the final word left Grimhilde's mouth than a bolt of lightning flashed, making her jump. The candle fell from Grimhilde's shaking hand and was extinguished by a sudden gust of wind that seemed to come from _within the mirror itself_. As the dumbfounded queen watched, bright orange flames leapt up inside the mirror. When they cleared away, a face rather like a mask was revealed.

Well. This answered one question. And rose about a thousand more.

"What wouldst thou know, my queen?"

"W-What are you?" Grimhilde gasped when she had regained the use of her voice.

"O dear queen, so noble and brave, this is the Magic Mirror, and I am its Slave."

"A Magic Mirror?" Grimhilde raised an eyebrow. "What is your purpose?"

"A question you may ask, and an answer I will see, knowing that I am bound by honesty."

"So I can ask you a question – any question – and you'll have to give me an honest answer?"

"Yes, my queen," the Mirror replied.

"What, no rhyme?" Grimhilde muttered under her breath. The absurdity of the situation had at last hit her. She was talking to a face in a mirror. That was what her life had come to. Oh well. With a sigh, Grimhilde tried to think of a question.

"Magic Mirror on the wall…" After a second, she paused. What should she ask? She caught a faint glimpse of her reflection behind the Mirror's face. "Who is the fairest one of all?" The question tumbled out before Grimhilde could consider it.

"You are the fairest one, O queen," the Mirror replied after a moment. "The fairest our eyes have ever seen. But this warning heed. Though you are the fairest now, you will not always be."

Grimhilde blinked, stunned. The Mirror's warning went in one ear and right out the other as the first half of the answer registered in her mind.

It would be three years before she would think of the warning again.

* * *

><p>On that day, Grimhilde sat on her throne, her fingers drumming impatiently against it. Something was wrong. She couldn't put her finger on it but something was different. After a few moments, she realized what it was.<p>

The letters. There weren't any letters.

Since Henry's death three years ago, Grimhilde had been beset by requests for her hand. Though she hadn't accepted any of them, they had continued to pile up. Until today, that is. But why had they suddenly stopped?

Grimhilde's eyes found a mirror, and she silently examined her reflection. The Magic Mirror's warning came rushing back to her.

"_Though you are the fairest now, you will not always be."_

While the logical part of Grimhilde's mind whispered that potential suitors had been driven away by her lack of interest, her more insecure half was whimpering in fear. Was it possible? Had it taken only three years for her beauty to fade? Who had replaced her as the fairest one of all?

Grimhilde knew the answers to none of these questions and that the only way to get them was to ask the Magic Mirror itself. The first chance she got, she went to her chambers and called on the Slave in the Magic Mirror. It started to ask its traditional question, but Grimhilde beat it to it.

"Magic Mirror on the wall, who is the fairest one of all?"

"You are the fairest one, O queen. The fairest our eyes have ever seen," the Mirror said.

Grimhilde sighed in a relief that proved to be short-lived when she saw her reflection staring back at her. Her skin seemed to be beginning to wrinkle and her lips were too pale. That just wouldn't do. If she was to remain the fairest, she had to look perfect. Luckily there was an easy solution. Grimhilde went to her vanity and liberally applied the appropriate makeup to cover up these flaws. In the process, she became aware of about a thousand other imperfections that at first glance seemed small but were really quite significant. How had she not noticed them before? Well, of course she couldn't just _leave_ them there. Before Grimhilde knew it, the sun had begun to set, at which point there was a tentative knock at her chamber door.

"Enter," Grimhilde said sharply, annoyed at being interrupted. The door opened to reveal Snow White. Grimhilde's manner softened a smidge. "Yes?"

"You forgot." Snow White's brown eyes were wide with anguish. Grimhilde frowned, puzzled.

"What are you talking about, child?"

"We were supposed to go for a ride in the forest today. You told me to wait outside for you, but you never came back. Remember?"

And suddenly Grimhilde did remember, if a bit vaguely, what she had said. A rush of guilt overcame her.

"Oh, Snow White, I'm so sorry!" She pulled her stepdaughter into a hug. "I'll make it up to you."

"How?" Snow White's face was guarded.

"Any way you want," Grimhilde assured her. "I promise."

For the briefest of seconds, uncertainty showed on Snow White's face. Was she telling the truth?

"Come now, Snow White," Grimhilde coaxed. "Have I ever broken my promises?"

The answer to that question was no – technically she had never _promised_ Snow White that she would take her riding today – but still the child remained silent. Grimhilde found herself becoming increasingly annoyed. What was taking her so long to answer? She had no reason to believe that Grimhilde would go back on her promise. What had happened today was a simple accident. She had been busy. As Speculum's sovereign ruler, she had much more to do than she used to. Why couldn't Snow White understand that?

"All right, Mother." Snow White's voice – had it always been so high-pitched? – broke through Grimhilde's thoughts. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Snow White," Grimhilde murmured absently. Happy that the situation had been resolved, Snow White skipped back to her chambers with a bright, happy smile. Grimhilde watched her go, her slender, willowy arms open wide, and felt an unpleasant tug at her heart. She would later come to identify it as jealousy.

Jealousy at the fact that Snow White retained her cheerful demeanor even after all that had happened to her.

Jealousy at the fact that Snow White had prospered while Rose lay in the ground.

Jealousy at the fact that Snow White would never have to worry about being unwanted or unloved.

Jealousy at the fact that Snow White did not have to look in the mirror every time she prepared to surround herself with people because she already knew what she would see; a fair, youthful face.

This final observation in particular threatened Grimhilde's sanity. It was as though Snow White was a bud that with each day got closer and closer to blossoming into a full-fledged flower. Never in her life had Grimhilde seen someone become so beautiful so fast, and it frightened her. If Snow White was this beautiful _now_ as a child, what would she be like as an adult? Perhaps her beauty would someday surpass Grimhilde's.

No. No, Grimhilde would not let that happen. She had come too far to lose now. She would simply have to stop Snow White's beauty from reaching its full potential.

A couple dozen years of scrubbing the castle floors ought to do the trick.

* * *

><p>I took a few liberties with the meaning of Grimhilde's name. It's composed of the two Germanic elements <em>grim<em> and _hild_. _Grim_ means "mask" and _hild_ means "battle," hence "mask of battle."

Our next villain will be Maleficent.


	2. Maleficent

*Ducks rotten eggs and tomatoes being thrown*

And to think I actually thought this chapter would be easier to write than Grimhilde's. As you've undoubtedly figured out by now, this won't have a specific update pattern. I will of course try to get the chapters up as soon as possible, but I can't promise anything.

**Disclaimer:** See Chapter One.

* * *

><p>"That's it, dear, just one more push." Flora Briarwood's voice was soft and encouraging. She brushed a lock of sweat-soaked chestnut hair out of her younger sister's face and gave her hand a squeeze. Fauna nodded. Her brown eyes closed in concentration, and she forced all her energy into the final push, stopping only when she heard the soft, unmistakable cries of a baby. Her eyes flew open and she bolted upright, eager to see her newborn daughter.<p>

It was here that Flora and Fauna's other sister, Merryweather, looked down at her new niece. She gasped and drew back, her blue eyes wide in something akin to horror.

"Flora, you – you should come see this."

Looking puzzled, Flora did as her youngest sister had bid. Her hand flew to her mouth, and her own earthy eyes nearly tripled in size.

"Oh my," she said in a barely audible voice.

"What's wrong?" Fauna demanded, anxiety for her baby clutching her heart. "Is my daughter all right?"

Flora twisted a strand of blond hair around her finger and refused to meet her sister's eyes. For once in her life, the pink-clad fairy was tongue-tied.

"Well, it's just that – she _appears_ to be healthy, but – well, she's – Fauna, she's – oh, how should I put this –?"

"She's green," Merryweather said bluntly. Flora glared at her.

"Tactless," she hissed. Fauna blinked; she couldn't have heard correctly. Was it possible?

Flora wrapped the newborn in a soft white blanket and placed her in Fauna's waiting arms. She then hurried from the room, with Merryweather close behind. Preparing herself for the worst, Fauna looked down at her baby and felt a soft gasp of surprise leave her.

She _had_ heard correctly – the baby was indeed green-skinned, with a head of black hair and gold eyes that blinked up at her with an intelligence she had never before seen in a newborn. Her weak cries had subsided, and she lay quiet in Fauna's arms.

She was beautiful. Fauna could feel her heart melt.

"Hello, my sweet one," she said softly. "Do you know who I am? I'm your mother. And those ladies you saw are my sisters, your aunts Flora and Merryweather. You'll have to forgive how they acted. They're really very nice; you just surprised them. Do you want to know your name, little one?"

The baby cooed, bring a pleased smile to Fauna's lips.

"I thought so. Your name is Maleficent. Maleficent Arianna le Fay. What do you think of it?"

Maleficent snuggled against her mother's chest, still cooing. Fauna smiled again and lifted her eyes in the direction of the window. Outside, the howling wind forced the snow to swirl about in a strange dance. Fauna loved winter. She could think of no better season to give her daughter life, and when Maleficent was older, Fauna would show her all the wonders it could bring, especially playing in the snow. Snow angels, snowball fights, snowmen – Vidar would have to help her with that, and –

Thoughts of her husband caused Fauna's smile to at last fade. Her grip on Maleficent unconsciously tightened, and a tear rolled down her face. Vidar couldn't help her show Maleficent about snow. Vidar couldn't help her with anything anymore.

Vidar le Fay had been a fairy like her, but he had used his magic to aid King Aidan's soldiers in battle, to keep them safe. It hadn't been enough to keep _him_ safe. He had been killed on the battlefield three months ago.

Sensing a change in her mother's mood and made uncomfortable by being squeezed, Maleficent began to whimper and squirm. Fauna turned her attention back to her daughter.

"Shh. It's all right, I'm here. Shh." Fauna rocked her back and forth and hummed a lullaby until she was quiet once more. "You have your father's eyes." She caressed Maleficent's cheek with one finger, allowing herself to reminisce. "He was a great man, little one, and he loved you very much."

Maleficent's little hand wound around Fauna's finger and pulled it close to her chest. Fauna could faintly feel the beating of her daughter's tiny heart and was aware of a tug at her own.

Fauna was naïve in certain aspects of life, but her mother hadn't raised a fool. It might not matter to her what color Maleficent's skin was but if her sisters' reactions to their niece were anything to go by, the rest of the world would not be so kind. It had been Vidar's greatest fear that their daughter would inherit his family's disease. Unless Fauna's memory was failing her, Maleficent was the first le Fay to be affected by it in a hundred years.

It broke Fauna's heart to imagine her innocent baby being forced to bear ridicule and be made an outcast for something she had no control over. She shifted Maleficent so that her head was cradled against her shoulder.

"Fairies cannot bestow gifts upon their kin," she murmured. "But I'm going to give you one anyway. Sweet child, my gift shall be the gift of a mother's love."

She felt Maleficent snuggle against her and heard her contented sigh.

"There will be times – many times – when the world will test your limits. You must be strong, and you must always remember this. I love you, my little Maleficent. Now and forevermore."

* * *

><p>"Come on, Maleficent," Fauna coaxed. "It's all right."<p>

There was a pause, and Maleficent hesitantly joined her mother at the base of the staircase, toying with the sleeve of her purple dress. Fauna smiled at her three-year-old daughter and smoothed her black hair out of her face.

"You look beautiful," she said sincerely.

Maleficent didn't feel beautiful; she felt nervous. She didn't like to be in big crowds like the one waiting downstairs. Usually during parties, she stayed in her room and played with her doll, Vasilisa, while her mother read to her. However, when the party for Prince Stefan's tenth birthday had been announced, Fauna had told her that they were going to have to mingle. Maleficent suspected that Aunt Flora and Aunt Merryweather had had something to do with this.

Fauna seemed to pick up on her anxiety. "The king and queen told me that a lot of children are coming." When Maleficent didn't answer, Fauna continued, "Leah's here too."

Maleficent's face brightened. Leah Rose, a princess from a neighboring kingdom betrothed to Stefan, was her idol.

"Are you ready to go to the party now?"

"Yes, Mama," Maleficent said quietly. Fauna took her little hand in hers and led her down the stairs. Maleficent clung to her until her eyes caught a flash of familiar golden blond hair.

"Leah!"

The nine-year-old princess turned from her conversation with Stefan and smiled when she saw little fairy.

"Hello, Maleficent. You've gotten taller since my last visit," she observed, going to hug the younger girl. Maleficent grinned. Leah looked over Maleficent's head and waved to someone Maleficent couldn't see.

"Some friends of mine are over there," she explained to Maleficent. "Do you want to meet them?"

When Maleficent nodded, albeit a little nervously, Leah took her hand and led her to the other side of the room where two girls around Leah's age stood. They were both elegantly dressed, one with curly dark brown hair, the other with wavy red locks.

"Hello, Leah," the brown-haired girl said politely before turning her gaze to Maleficent. "Who's your… friend?"

"This is Maleficent." Leah gave Maleficent a gentle push to make her closer to the girls. "Maleficent, this is Isabella, and that's Alexandra." She gestured to the brown and red-haired girl in turn. Maleficent held her hand out to be shaken, the way she had seen her mother do on occasions. Neither girl took it.

"Are you feeling well?" Alexandra asked, giving her a strange look. Maleficent nodded, wondering why she would ask that. Did she look sick? She didn't _feel_ sick.

It only got stranger from there. Leah gave Isabella and Alexandra a look of her own. Maleficent knew that look; it was a "stop talking" look. Aunt Flora gave it to Aunt Merryweather all the time.

There were a few minutes of uneasy small talk, mostly from Leah, Isabella, and Alexandra. The latter two kept giving Maleficent odd looks, much to her confusion. After a little while, Leah was called away, leaving Maleficent alone with them.

"Please excuse us," Isabella drawled. Alexandra merely smirked, and the two pranced away. Curious by nature and reluctant to remain alone in a sea of unfamiliar faces, Maleficent followed them. She would later wish she hadn't.

She found Isabella and Alexandra huddled together, whispering and laughing snidely.

"How do you suppose her skin became green?" Isabella wondered.

"Perhaps her mother became ill before her birth," Alexandra suggested. Isabella smirked.

"I do hope it's not contagious. I'd rather not spend my life looking like a freak. Which begs the question of why they let her out with us normal people."

"Even freaks need exercise."

At this, they both laughed, a high-pitched and unpleasant sound. Maleficent stared at them, gold eyes wide. She had never considered her skin to be unusual – she had never had any reason to – but now… a freak? Was that what she was? Was that why Mama kept her in her room whenever there was a party?

The room suddenly became blurry. Maleficent turned and ran, not stopping until she had reached the garden. Tears rolling down her cheeks, she managed to crawl under a rosebush. The sharp thorns brushed her skin but did not cut it. Instead they seemed to pull away when she touched them and slide back into place when she was out of reach, as though they were protecting her. Hidden from prying eyes and cruel words, Maleficent curled up into a ball, her face and dress wet with tears.

An hour passed before she heard a sound that was not connected to nature; her mother's voice, calling her name. She hesitated for a moment, then slowly crawled out of the rosebush.

"Here I am, Mama."

Her face filled with relief, Fauna scooped her up and sank back onto the soft grass, stroking her hair.

"Leah told me what happened," she murmured. A trace of anger clouded her voice, something vastly out of character for her. Maleficent whimpered, and Fauna pulled her closer. "Sweetheart, I'm so sorry. I never wanted this to happen. That's why I let you stay in your room; so this wouldn't happen."

"Mama, am I a freak?" Maleficent's voice quivered. Fauna looked horrified.

"No! No, of course not! Don't believe anything those awful girls said, not one word. You're different, yes, but that doesn't mean a thing. You're a beautiful girl, and nothing can change that."

Maleficent nestled closer to her mother, wanting to believe her but somehow being unable to.

* * *

><p>Maleficent tripped over the back of her long dress and fell to the ground, prompting shrieks of laughter from the group of bigger boys overshadowing her. Beneath her torn sleeves, purple bruises were beginning to blossom.<p>

"Go away!"

The boys' leader, William, advanced on the cowering six-year-old. Long strands of black hair were clenched in one fist and a smirk was pressed across his face.

"And what will you do if I don't?"

"I'll tell Mama!"

Maleficent's threat did not produce the desired effect. William merely laughed and turned to his partners in crime.

"Did you hear that, boys? She'll tell her mama on us." For the last part, he made his voice whiny and high-pitched in a poor imitation of Maleficent.

She took his momentary distraction as an opportunity to get away and took off in the direction of the forest. The boys, not wanting their quarry to escape but at the same unwilling to follow her into the forest, seized the things closest to them – large, sharp stones – and hurled them at her retreating form, each one a direct hit. Even so, Maleficent did not stop until she was deep in the forest. Shaking, she collapsed against the base of a tall tree and made sure Vasilisa was unharmed before examining her own wounds. One of the stones had gashed the back of her head and the other her cheek but beyond that she was all right. Sad as it seemed, she was getting used to it. The party had opened the floodgates, and the whispers about Maleficent's skin had begun the next day – or perhaps they had always been there and she just hadn't noticed. And with the whispers came those less discreet. Hence William and his lackeys. Fauna and Leah made them stop when they were around, but they couldn't always be there.

Maleficent looked up at the canopy of leaves above her. She had known the boys wouldn't follow her here; the forest frightened them. Maleficent had no such fear, having been coming here with Fauna ever since she could remember. This place was a second home to her. In many ways it was more of a home to her than the castle; no one made fun of her skin here. The animals didn't care what she looked like so long as she didn't cause trouble for them.

After about ten minutes or so, Maleficent decided that it was safe to go back to the castle. As she stood up to leave, she heard a soft, raspy caw. She paused and looked back. Several feet away from her was a mass of twitching black feathers. A raven, his feathers stained crimson and bloody patches around his eyes appearing to be the source. He'd gotten into a fight with another animal, from the look of it.

Maleficent felt sympathy for the sorry-looking creature. She felt something of a kinship with him, both of them cut up and left for dead. She kneeled down and stretched out her hand. The raven cawed frantically and flapped his wings, amber eyes rolling wildly, yet he didn't fly away. One of his wings must have been broken as well.

"Shh, it's all right," Maleficent said softly. "I'm not going to hurt you." She stroked the top of the raven's head. Her touch seemed to have a calming effect, for the raven's struggles ceased. With a shudder, he lay quiet on the ground, staring up at her with curiosity instead of fear. Maleficent leaned closer to examine him. She winced; the cuts looked pretty bad. "Can you understand me?" The raven blinked and nodded. "I want to help you, but you have to stay still, okay?" When the raven nodded again, she tucked Vasilisa under her arm before carefully picked him up and held him close.

_Mama will know what to do,_ she thought. Fauna loved animals. Moving as quickly as she could, Maleficent brought the raven to the castle, seeking out her mother and eventually finding her in her bedroom. Fauna's brown eyes widened when she saw the dried blood on her daughter's face.

"Maleficent, what on Earth happened to you?"

"It doesn't matter." Maleficent shook her head and held out the raven. "He's hurt. Can you fix him?"

Fauna nodded, but when she tried to take the pitiful bird from Maleficent, he began cawing and flapping once more and did not stop until Maleficent started to stroke his head, at which point he was silent again. In the chaos, Fauna had received a cut from his powerful talons.

"Little devil," she murmured, though she didn't sound the least bit angry. "Maleficent, can you hold him for me?"

"Okay, Mama."

Maleficent sat on the bed with the raven in her arms as Fauna doctored his wounds. The diagnosis was a broken wing and claw marks. The poor thing had nearly had his eyes gouged out as well, and the scars would remain there forever. Much to Maleficent's delight, Fauna said that the raven could stay with them while his wing recovered. To make up for his lack of flight, she allowed him to ride on her shoulder as she went about the castle. When he was strong enough to fly once more, he would never stray very far from her and seemed to enjoy it when she petted him. Fauna said that it was his way of trying to thank her for saving him. Maleficent liked the attention and was disappointed when at last the raven fully healed.

On that day, she opened her bedroom window and placed him on the sill, expecting him to take off immediately. However, he didn't move, merely watched her.

"What's the matter?" Maleficent asked. "Don't you want to go back to the forest?"

The raven looked at her for a moment longer and shook his head. Maleficent frowned, wondering why he would want to stay here. The castle wasn't a very nice place to live; if _she_ had a choice, she would live in the forest.

"Why not? It's your home."

The raven hopped onto her shoulder and nuzzled her cheek. Maleficent blinked.

"You – you want to stay with me?" Her voice was barely above a whisper. There was another nod, and Maleficent felt warmth bubble in her chest. She could count on one hand the number of people willing to be in her company and was delighted to add another to the ranks. A wide smile stretched across her face.

"All right, you can stay…" She trailed off, biting her lip. "Do you have a name?" When the raven shook his head, Maleficent tilted her head to one side in thought. He had to have a name, so what should it be? Her mind wandered back to the day she had brought him home. "Little devil," Fauna had called him. Devil…

"What about Diablo?"

The raven cawed and nodded eagerly. Maleficent laughed at his enthusiasm.

"Okay. Diablo it is."

* * *

><p>"Do you know what today is?"<p>

Without giving Diablo a chance to express a response, Maleficent set her hairbrush down and turned to face him. "It's my birthday. Not just any birthday either. I'm ten today. Do you know what that means?" Diablo shook his head, and Maleficent continued, "I get to learn how to use magic. I get a wand and everything."

She was practically beaming. There was a knock at the door, and Fauna entered the room, smiling and holding something behind her back.

"Happy birthday, dear." She kissed Maleficent's forehead. "Close your eyes and hold out your hands."

Maleficent did as instructed and felt something drop into her hands. She opened her eyes, and it was revealed to be a staff topped with a green orb.

"Mother, this is beautiful. Thank you."

"I'm glad you like it." Fauna beamed. "Come with me, and we'll give you your first lesson."

Now sporting a grin of her own, Maleficent followed her mother to Flora's room. Flora and Merryweather were waiting for them, Flora tapping her foot impatiently. Both were holding their wands, and Fauna took hers out when they got closer.

"Now, then." Flora gestured to a large pot containing rosebuds. "We'll start with something basic; making flowers bloom. Observe." She waved her wand over one of the buds, said an incantation, and a second later, a full-grown rose stood in its place. "Now you try."

"Go on, dear," Fauna coaxed, giving Maleficent a gentle push forward. The younger fairy nodded nervously and stepped towards the pot. She waved her staff and said the incantation, as Flora had done. For a second, nothing happened. Then the spiky thorns on the rose's stem began to grow. Just the thorns and not the actual flower.

"That's good," Fauna said encouragingly. "Try it again."

Maleficent repeated her actions. This time, a frost crept from the orb of her staff and settled over the roses, killing them. Merryweather bit her lip to suppress a snicker at the expression on Flora's face. It was a well-known fact that Flora dearly loved her flowers.

"I'm sorry, Aunt Flora!" Maleficent exclaimed, horrified by her mistake. "I didn't mean – it was an accident."

There was a moment of silence, during which all four fairies stood staring at the frost-covered flowers.

"Okay," Merryweather intervened, catching Maleficent's attention. "Here, we'll try this…"

The lesson was, in short, a disaster. Either the spells didn't work at all or they backfired horribly. Maleficent could sense Flora and Merryweather slowly losing her patience with her. She, for her part, could feel her cheeks burning dark green in humiliation. Finally, _finally_ the lesson was over, and Maleficent quickly left the room. Fauna scrambled to catch up with her.

"Don't be discouraged, Maleficent," she said gently. "It's only your first day."

"Mother, Aunt Flora and Aunt Merryweather said that those spells were supposed to be _simple._ What sort of fairy am I if I can't even do simple spells?" Maleficent paused, considering. "Do you think it has something to do with my skin?"

"Absolutely not," Fauna said firmly. "It could just be that your magic works differently than ours." At these words, her eyes suddenly brightened. "Oh! I almost forgot." She flitted away and returned a few minutes later with a large, leather-bound black-and-silver book that Maleficent determined to be a spell book. Smiling, Fauna handed it to her.

"Here, dear. Why don't you try practicing with this?"

Maleficent ran her hand along the book's silver seal. It looked quite old.

"I'll take care of it, Mother," she promised. Fauna pulled her into a tight hug.

"I know you will."

* * *

><p>Later that night, Maleficent sat cross-legged on her bed, flipping through the spell book. From his perch on her headboard, Diablo read along with her.<p>

"What do you think I should try first?" Maleficent started to turn another page and paused, looking closer. In the middle of the book was a small strip of paper. Curious, Maleficent opened to the marked page and found it to be the beginning of a section dedicated to dark magic. Maleficent's eyes widened but with interest rather than fear. As a general rule, fairies did not use dark magic – many did not even know how to – but this was a rule she had never understood. What made magic dark, exactly? She had asked Merryweather that question once, but her answer had been rambling and hadn't made any sense.

And besides, her mother had said that her magic could work differently than that of other fairies. It was worth a try, wasn't it?

Maleficent turned the page and carefully read through the listed spells until she found one that caught her interest – summoning lightning. An odd tingly feeling formed in the tips of her fingers, as though the spell was trying to call out to her, to get her to use it.

"I'll start with this one." She pointed to it so Diablo could see. "You might want to get back," she added in warning. "I'm not very good at this yet."

Diablo took Maleficent's advice and flew to the other side of the room as she stood to open the window and consulted the spell book. She took a deep breath, pointed her staff out the window, and said the incantation. Immediately, a bolt of bright white lightning flew from the orb and hurtled outside. Diablo fluttered to the windowsill and gave her a look that seemed to say, _You call _that_ not good?_

At least, that was what Maleficent thought he was trying to say. Though she had gotten quite good at interpreting the raven's body language, there were still times when she had no clue what he was trying to express. If only he could talk.

_Wait. Perhaps I can make him._

"Diablo, stay right there and don't move." Maleficent shut the window and all but dove for her spell book, flipping through it until she found a spell that seemed to be the right one – it was titled "Inner Voice." She read through it very carefully in her mind before speaking it aloud. Green light burst from the tip of her staff and hurtled towards Diablo, striking him in the chest and sending him to the floor.

"Diablo!" Maleficent ran to the fallen raven. "Diablo, I'm so sorry! Are you all right?"

The raven stood up and shook himself.

_/I think so, yes. You knocked the wind out of me. I haven't been so out of breath since –/_ Diablo froze, amber eyes widening in realization. _/You – Maleficent, can you _hear_ me?/_

Maleficent was too surprised to do anything but nod. Diablo let out a joyful screech.

_/This is wonderful! You have no idea how frustrating it is not to be able to properly communicate with someone, especially when you've all but spelt out what you're trying to tell them…/_

His beak did not move, and yet Maleficent heard the words as plain as day. Out of the corner of her eye, she looked at the spell book sitting innocently on her bed.

It would appear that Fauna had been correct.

* * *

><p>Deep in the forest, a gray boulder exploded at the touch of a lightning bolt.<p>

_/Wonderful!/_ Diablo fluttered from his perch in a nearby tree and landed on his twelve-year-old mistress's shoulder. _/Your aim has become quite impressive, Maleficent./_

Maleficent smiled at the raven's praise. Only two years into her magical training and she no longer had to say the incantations for her spells, merely think them. According to her mother and aunts, this was something most fairies couldn't do until their fifth year of training. Not that they knew about her advancements. Due to the nature of her magic and how it was perceived, Maleficent had decided that it was best to keep it under wraps, for now at least. Her smile faded when she remembered why she was here in the first place.

_/Maleficent?/_ Diablo looked at her, concerned. _/Is something wrong?/_

"No," she lied. "Nothing."

Diablo gave her a look that was the equivalent of a human raising their eyebrow. Maleficent sighed.

"I had to get away from the newlyweds," she admitted after a moment.

The newlyweds were Stefan and Leah. They had been married for a little over a year and were still in that dreamy-eyed stage of it. It was disgusting to watch. And… okay, maybe she was a little jealous that Leah wasn't spending as much time with her as she used to. When Leah used to visit Diluculo, she had divided her time between Stefan and Maleficent, whereas all of it was now spent with Stefan. Understandable, of course, but that didn't make it any less annoying.

_/What's next?/_

Maleficent paused in her musings and opened her spell book. She had been successful with every spell save one titled "Inner Beast," which simply refused to work for her.

"The 'Inner Beast' again." It probably wouldn't make a difference, but there was no harm in trying, right?

Diablo went back to the safety of his tree as Maleficent closed her eyes and chanted the spell in her mind. Nothing. She frowned and said the words out loud but got the same result. With a frustrated growl, she opened her eyes again.

_/Come now, Maleficent, don't be discouraged./_ Diablo returned to her shoulder. _/You'll get it./_

Maleficent smiled and gave the raven's head an affectionate stroke. He was very good at cheering her up.

An unfamiliar noise reached Maleficent's ears. She froze for a moment before standing straight up, completely alert, and looking around. There didn't seem to be anything around, but the noise was growing louder. It was footsteps, clunky and awkward, as those of one who was unused to the forest. Two sets of footsteps, actually, one more frantic than the other.

"Do you hear that, Diablo?"

_/Yes. What do you suppose it could be?/_

The raven didn't have to wonder long. The first footsteps were coming towards them at a high speed. Maleficent and Diablo exchanged glances and ducked into a patch of undergrowth, in case the new animal proved to be dangerous. From the thick brush burst a –

Actually Maleficent had no idea _what_ to call the strange creature that had appeared in front of her. It was small, probably only coming up to her knee, with greenish-brown skin and a strange, bird-like face, though it walked upright and wore what looked like a dirty pillowcase. She had never seen anything like it.

"What _is_ that?" she whispered.

_/A goblin; only a baby, by the look of it. They live at the Forbidden Mountain and have a reputation for being violent and stupid. It's not a pretty combination./_ Diablo fluttered his wings nervously. _/We should leave before it spots us./_

"Hang on," Maleficent replied, taking a closer look at the goblin. "He doesn't look violent, just terrified."

Diablo started to argue but was cut off by a second sound. More footsteps, and though they were farther off, the goblin's eyes widened in fear. At last, Maleficent understood; the goblin was being hunted. She looked at it, feeling a sense of pity. She had been in this same situation before.

Quietly, Maleficent crawled out of the undergrowth, ignoring Diablo's alarmed caw. The goblin froze at the sight of her and seemed to be getting ready to run.

"Stop! I want to help!"

The goblin regarded her suspiciously but soon decided that she could be trusted over the hunter. Maleficent waved her hand, and he followed her into the undergrowth. She pressed a finger to her lips for silence, and the goblin nodded in understanding. Diablo eyed him warily but did nothing.

The bushes quivered, and the hunter was revealed. Maleficent's eyes widened in shock; it was William, armed with a knife. Blast it, her sanctuary had been destroyed! Beside her, the goblin whimpered, and she patted his head reassuringly. Though she would never admit it, she was feeling much the same way at the moment.

William wasn't a very good hunter, she observed; it was painfully obvious which way the goblin had gone, yet he was still looking around. Luring him away shouldn't be too hard. Maleficent spotted a large, flat stone, grabbed it, and tossed it into a patch of brush when William wasn't looking (she was sorely tempted to throw it as his head but managed to resist). He took the bait just as she had predicted. Once his clumsy footsteps had faded away, the goblin hopped out into the open, his fears gone. He looked up at Maleficent, chattering happily in a language the fairy couldn't understand. He started to hop away, beckoning for Maleficent and Diablo to follow. The two exchanged a glance and cautiously complied.

The goblin led them straight to the Forbidden Mountain. Maleficent looked up at it, feeling a sense of awe. She had only ever seen it from the castle. Up close, it was ominous but also beautiful in a strange, gothic sense. At the top of the mountain, Maleficent could see a fortress. She wanted to explore it, but the goblin stopped at the base of the mountain. Once Maleficent managed to tear her eyes away from the fortress, she saw why.

Goblins. Hundreds of them, at _least_, gathered at the base of the Forbidden Mountain. Though they were all shorter than her, they were also wearing armor, carrying weapons, and staring at her strangely. Maleficent thought back to Diablo's description of goblins and wondered if the only reason she wasn't being killed was the little goblin and the chirping noises he was making. From his perch on her shoulder, Diablo shifted nervously. His instincts were telling him to take flight, but he wouldn't abandon Maleficent, who felt a rush of affection for the bird and gripped her staff tightly. She had no doubt that she would be able to defend herself against _one_ of the goblins but there were so many of them. Could they overrun her?

The baby goblin hopped up to the group. One of them, who aside from his greenish-brown skin and armor looked like a pig that had been taught to walk upright, stepped forward and began making deep grunting noises to counter the baby's high-pitched chirps. Unable to stay still any longer, Diablo fluttered to the orb of Maleficent's staff. In an attempt to relieve both his nerves and her own, Maleficent began stroking him.

After what seemed like an eternity, the pig-like goblin looked up at Maleficent and Diablo.

"Fairy save goblin?"

Maleficent nodded, trying not to wince at the goblin's horribly broken English. "That's correct."

At her words, the goblins began chattering quietly in their language, stopping only when the pig-like goblin – obviously their leader – raised his hand.

"Fairy save goblin," he repeated, as though he was having a hard time believing it. "First time human-like creature help goblins. Humans kill goblins. Fairies don't help goblins, except new fairy. What fairy's name?"

"Maleficent. Maleficent le Fay."

"Goblins in debt to Maleficent. Maleficent welcome at Forbidden Mountain. Goblins will help Maleficent."

As a display of his newfound loyalty, the goblin kneeled down in front of her. The others followed his example, their eyes filled with respect and gratitude. The sight made Maleficent blink, both in surprise and at the irony of it all. Diablo, too, seemed to be shocked.

_/What just happened?/_

Maleficent watched the goblins for a moment before replying, "We've formed an alliance."

At this realization, a slow smile spread across her face.

* * *

><p>Maleficent's happiness burned like a fire until she and Diablo got back to the castle, at which point it was quickly extinguished. William was waiting for her, and he looked livid.<p>

"So it _was_ you!"

"What are you talking about?" Maleficent feigned innocence, silently cursing the fact that William was apparently not as stupid as she had originally thought.

"You know what I'm talking about." William took a step closer to her. "You helped that little cretin escape."

"The only cretin I know of is you!" Maleficent snapped. "Why is it that you're intimidated by anything different?"

William's answer was a shove that sent Maleficent to the ground. Diablo let out an angry screech and made a move towards William, but Maleficent raised a hand to stop him, her gold eyes narrowed and glaring up at her attacker. He was probably waiting for her to cry and run for her mother. Well, those days were over. She had changed since then. If she could get a horde of goblins to give her their loyalty, she could surely get him to leave her alone.

Acting on a strange and basic instinct that she had never felt before today, Maleficent lifted her staff and sent a bolt of lightning at William. Not enough to do any serious harm but enough to get him to back off. This time it was William who was on the ground and Maleficent who was standing. It made for a nice change, she thought, watching him scamper away.

"Maleficent Arianna le Fay!"

Maleficent winced at the sound of her full name – it was habit by now – and turned to find Merryweather coming towards her, blue eyes smoldering with fury.

"Fairies don't injure others unless it's absolutely necessary! You _know_ that, Maleficent!"

Maleficent frowned. Hadn't her aunt been watching? He had attacked her first!

"Yes, but –"

"But nothing," Merryweather said firmly. She grabbed Maleficent's wrist and half-led, half-pulled her back to the castle.

* * *

><p>It didn't take long for news of Maleficent's supposed attack on William to reach the villages surrounding the castle. Maleficent had thought herself a pariah before, but now even people who had been able to look at her without flinching took care to avoid her, probably frightened that she would cast a spell on them.<p>

Never mind the fact that William had been making her life a living hell for almost all of her thirteen years, and that he had attacked her first. No, clearly _she_ was at fault.

At this time, Maleficent's newfound alliance with the goblins proved to be extremely beneficial. The Forbidden Mountain provided an excellent place to practice her magic, far from critical eyes. She spent long days at the fortress with only Diablo, her staff, and her spell book, learning new spells and perfecting old ones. Her family and the rest of the castle dwellers thought these outings to be walks in the forest.

On one such outing, Maleficent sat outside the fortress with the spell book in her lap. Diablo was out flying and she was passing the time by flipping through the book's pages for something new. The "Inner Beast" spell stared up at her, undefeated. She frowned at it before becoming conscious of a tingling in her fingertips, much like when she had first used the book. It did not happen with all the spells she could cast effectively, but to feel it was a sure sign of success. Rather than making her happy, Maleficent's frown deepened. What would make it suddenly work after three years of failure? She fingered the book's spine, her mind wandering to all that had happened since she had last tried the spell. She had gained the goblins' loyalty, which had given her enough confidence to stand up to William. Perhaps that was what this spell needed to work: confidence, more so than in everyday life.

_Well, what have I got to lose?_

Eyes closed, Maleficent mentally chanted the spell, ridding her mind of all other thoughts, trying to remember the feeling of power she had felt when the goblins had bowed to her, when William ran away from her. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then there was a surge of power unlike anything Maleficent had ever felt – it was as though she could take on an entire army and be victorious. She felt herself shoot up and chanced a glance at the transformation. Her blackening skin grew scaly and rough. Her limbs elongated, fingers becoming claws and teeth into fangs. There was a strange sensation on her back and scalp that was neither pleasant nor painful, as though something was sprouting from them.

When the sensations faded away, Maleficent found that she had become a dragon. A _dragon._ Her new body quivered in amazement. The same powerful feeling returned when she looked around. Everything was so small; even the fortress was dwarfed by her. But what was on the ground was no longer of any concern to her. No, she wanted to be in the air. Stretching out her wings, she flapped and flapped until her spine brushed against the clouds.

Maleficent herself was part of a small group of fairies that had been born without wings. When she was younger, Fauna would pick her up and fly around with her in her arms, but the pleasant feelings that had brought paled in comparison to being able to do it herself at last. Even with her extensive vocabulary, Maleficent could find no words to describe flying. It was simply wonderful. Now she understood why Diablo loved it so.

Diablo! She had to find him, show him her newest accomplishment. Even with her scales and snout, Maleficent's smirk was apparent. The raven was in for the shock of his life. She found him and, once he regained consciousness, the two began their flight anew. It was beautiful. Here there were no critical people or judgmental stares or scornful whispers. Here she was simply herself.

_/Not bad for a fairy./_ Diablo remarked when they had made their way back to the Forbidden Mountain. Maleficent nodded in acknowledgment, her eyes closing as she changed back. The sensations came back, but this time seemed to be in reverse. When she was a fairy once more, she picked up the discarded spell book and held out her hand for Diablo to return to her. Mentally, she chanted another spell, this one for teleportation. Green flames enveloped Maleficent and Diablo. There was a swooping sensation similar to flight, and the next thing they knew, they were in the library, Maleficent's sanctuary within the castle. Diablo looked a bit pale beneath his feathers; he didn't much like teleporting. Maleficent didn't seem to notice.

"That was amazing!" she exclaimed, not bothering to keep her voice down. "Is flying like that for you all the time, Diablo?"

_/Yes./_ Diablo landed on her shoulder and nuzzled her cheek. _/Do you want to go flying again tomorrow?/_

"Of course. Perhaps you should give notice. I don't imagine the forest animals are accustomed to seeing a dragon."

_/Um… Maleficent…/_ Diablo's eyes were suddenly wide with alarm, staring at something over her shoulder.

"What?" Maleficent followed the raven's gaze and her expression mirrored his when she found Flora, Fauna, and Merryweather standing behind her. Judging from the expressions on her aunts' faces, they had heard everything.

"Hello, Mother, Aunt Flora, Aunt Merryweather," Maleficent said politely when she had regained her composure. "You three seem to have a habit of turning up at inopportune moments."

"Maleficent, you – you didn't _really_ turn into a dragon, did you?" Flora's eyes were filled with false hope.

"I did." Maleficent saw no point in denying it if they already knew. "What does it matter?"

"What does it matter?" Merryweather exclaimed. "Maleficent, do you have any idea how dark that spell is?"

"Merry, enough," Fauna interjected. "This isn't the time."

"Oh, but it is! I refuse to watch my niece turn into a monster!"

Amber eyes flashing, Diablo launched himself at Merryweather with a furious shriek before closing his beak around the stout fairy's hand. Merryweather cried out in pain and tried to shake him off, assisted by Flora. With all that was going on, it was no surprise that Maleficent's exit to her bedroom went unnoticed.

Maleficent had no illusions that her aunts particularly liked her – even when she was a young child, it had been obvious to her that they really only tolerated her – but it had never occurred to her that they thought she was a monster. She had vaguely come to terms with the fact that others thought her to be something horrible, but to hear it from her family… it hurt.

There was a knock on the door. Maleficent ignored it, but Fauna came in anyway.

"Have you come to yell too?" Without waiting for an answer, Maleficent turned away and stared at the wall.

"Of course not." Fauna sat on the bed beside her daughter. "She didn't mean it, dear. You know how your aunt gets when she's upset."

"You don't have to lie, Mother," Maleficent murmured wearily. "I know what people think of me."

"They really do love you," Fauna said quietly. "They just don't want to see you…" She paused, trying to find the right words. "They don't want you to go down the wrong path."

"Use dark magic, you mean," Maleficent muttered bitterly. There was a moment of silence.

"You could have told me, you know." Fauna's voice was laced with hurt. Maleficent bit her lip, feeling strangely guilty.

"I didn't think you would understand." The lie flowed from her lips like water in a stream. The real reason – one that she would not admit even to herself – was that she had been fearful of rejection, and somehow she did not think she would be able to handle her mother rejecting her. Fauna's smile grew slightly sly.

"Oh but I do. More than you know."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you know who used to own that book?" When Maleficent shook her head, Fauna continued, "Your father."

Maleficent blinked. She never really gave Vidar much thought, save for when Fauna spoke of him – he was simply the faceless man who had played a role in her birth and handed down his dormant disease. Nothing more, until now. She felt a connection to him for the first time in her life.

"Really?"

"Yes." Fauna's eyes were wistful. "He once told me that magic wasn't dark until it was used for the wrong reasons."

_A nice sentiment,_ Maleficent thought with a nod.

"Do you know why I'm telling you this, dear?"

"So I know that not everyone with dark magic is evil?" Maleficent guessed.

"Partially." Fauna's expression was suddenly unnaturally serious. "And so that you know that you don't have to hide who you are from me. I'll accept you no matter what happens. Do you understand?"

Everything in the room blurred together.

"Yes." Maleficent winced at how choked her voice sounded; she wasn't very good with emotions. Fauna's smile returned and she hugged her daughter close.

* * *

><p>"Are you sure you'll be all right, dear?"<p>

Maleficent rolled her eyes. "Yes, Mother."

"It will only be for a few days."

"I know, Mother."

"I'll be home in time for your birthday –"

"_Mother,"_ Maleficent interrupted. "I'll be fine. Just worry about your friend, all right?"

Fauna was traveling to the next village over to care for a sick friend until a relative came to do just that. It was the first time she and Maleficent would be so far apart, and Fauna wasn't taking it well. She enveloped her daughter in a tight hug.

"Be good for your aunts, Maleficent. I'll be back soon."

"Goodbye."

With a flick of her wand, Fauna flew away. Maleficent kept her eyes on her until she was little more than a speck. She turned to go back inside the castle and came face-to-face with William Godfrey. Maleficent recoiled, startled.

"What do you want?" she snapped, eyes narrowed. William glared at her and walked away. Maleficent watch him go with a frown. This wasn't the first time she had caught him staring at her that way, like a dog eyeing a piece of meat; he had been doing it ever since her rescue of the goblin, and although she would never admit it, it made her nervous. Only now did the chill of the winter day really hit her. A sense of foreboding crawled up her spine.

_Oh, stop it. What could happen?_

* * *

><p>As it turned out, quite a bit could happen. Without Fauna's presence to hold them back, Flora and Merryweather let their claws come out, and they weren't shy about using them. In her sixteen years of life, Maleficent had never been criticized as much as in that four-day period. Everything she did was wrong. If it wasn't her clothes, it was her attitude, and if not that, her posture or magic or some miniscule detail that Maleficent hadn't known could be insulted. Despite what she had said to her mother, she was slowly becoming unhinged. She couldn't even escape to the Forbidden Mountain because her aunts watched the castle exits so closely, as well as the fact that her teleportation spell wasn't exactly inconspicuous.<p>

Which was why on her sixteenth birthday, she was sitting up in her room with Diablo, trying to change Flora's present – a pointed hat like the ones she, her mother, and Aunt Merryweather wore – into something that she wouldn't feel like a great fool wearing.

Currently anything that wasn't pink and flowery would do.

_Zap!_

From his perch on the windowsill, Diablo tilted his head to one side.

_/I think some of the flowers are gone./_

Maleficent let out a frustrated growl. This would have been child's play for any other fairy, so why was it so difficult for her? Behind her, there was the creak of the door. Maleficent whirled around, eyes blazing.

"What?"

Startled, Leah took a step back.

"Oh. Forgive me, Your Majesty," Maleficent said coolly.

"There's no need for formalities," Leah said quietly. "I'm still me. May I come in?"

"It defeats the whole purpose of asking if you're already inside, don't you think?"

"I suppose you're right." Leah shut the door behind her, looking horribly uncomfortable. In one hand was a piece of paper, which she gave to Maleficent.

"Fauna wrote; she should be coming back tonight."

"Thank you."

"This came with it." Leah pressed something small and cold into Maleficent's palm. It was a ring, onyx and set in gold. She immediately slipped it onto her finger. Leah's gaze went to the hat. "Did I interrupt something?"

"You did." Maleficent shifted her attention back to it as well.

_Zap!_

An extra point popped out of the hat, giving it the appearance of horns.

"Oh, wonderful," Maleficent muttered under her breath.

"If you want, I could distract Flora and Merryweather so you could go to the forest. You like walking there, don't you?"

_Zap!_

The last of the flowers fell as Maleficent turned to Leah, her gaze wary.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?" Leah blinked.

"Suddenly being nice."

"Haven't I always been nice to you?" When she received no answer, Leah wrung her hands nervously. "We've become… distant, you and I. Once we were friends, and I would like for things to be that way again."

Maleficent searched Leah's eyes for signs of a trick, but they were sincere. She smiled.

"As would I."

Leah returned the gesture, then motioned to the hat.

"Perhaps you would like to finish…?"

"Oh, of course!" Maleficent took a deep breath and raised her staff a final time.

_Zap!_

The hat turned black. Maleficent smiled; it was a decided improvement.

"Are you going to wear _that_?" Leah raised an eyebrow.

"That's the idea." Maleficent plucked it from the floor and dusted it off.

"You'll look like a demon!" Leah protested. Maleficent merely shrugged.

"Most people think I'm a demon anyhow. I may as well look the part."

Leah sighed. This wasn't a battle she was going to win.

* * *

><p>"Very well, if you must, you must."<p>

Leah managed to distract Flora and Merryweather long enough for Maleficent to use her teleportation spell to get to the Forbidden Mountain, where she spent the remainder of the day with Diablo. It was only when the sun started to go down that she decided to return. She opted to walk back to the castle rather than teleport – she loved the night and had no fear of the forest.

Maleficent was nearly to the castle, Diablo flying a little ways ahead, when they heard rustling. Diablo dropped onto her shoulder, and Maleficent raised her staff as a familiar face emerged from the brush, bloody and dragging a sack behind him, hunting knife in hand.

"Sorry for scaring for you," William said, though to Maleficent's mind he didn't sound sorry at all.

"You didn't, but thank you just the same." As long as he was being civil, she would be until given reason to change tactics. "Why are you out here anyway?"

"Hunting." William nodded to the sack. Diablo looked vaguely ill, and Maleficent stroked his back reassuringly. "Well… goodbye."

"Goodbye." Maleficent turned to continue on her way. That had been awkward, but not horrible.

Yet.

A sharp pain shot through Maleficent's right hand. She dropped her staff with a cry and found that it had been cut; blood pooled around the wound. Embedded in the bark of a nearby tree was a hunting knife.

Maleficent had approximately two seconds to process this before being pinned to the ground with a second blade pressed against her throat.

"Let's see if you can humiliate me without your magic, fairy!"

Before William could cut her again, Diablo lunged, talons clawing at his face, forcing him off Maleficent. William howled in pain and smacked the raven into a briar patch, where he crumbled.

"I've had enough of you as well!" he snarled, advancing with the knife.

_No!_

Maleficent grabbed her staff, her only thought to keep Diablo safe. Lightning flew from the orb, striking William directly in the chest and sending him into a tree with a sickening _crack._

"Diablo?" Maleficent whispered, breaking the eerie silence that had come over the forest. "Are you all right?"

_/I've been better./_ Diablo struggled against the thorns. In the distance, there were voices. _/But I've also been worse./_

The voices grew louder; Maleficent rose to help Diablo from the briar patch just as their owners appeared, out of breath and carrying sacks, and she recognized them as William's lackeys. One of them saw him against the tree, and his eyes widened. Their gazes went to Maleficent, staring at her as though she had spontaneously burst into flames. They backed away, slowly at first, then running as though their lives depended on it. Although this was not unusual, Maleficent found herself slightly confused until she saw what they had seen.

The impact had not merely knocked William unconscious as she had originally thought; his head was bent at an awkward angle, and his eyes were still open, staring at her in silent accusation.

He was dead, and she had killed him.

A frustrated screech from Diablo brought Maleficent out of her horror, and she went to help him before he hurt himself further. Anything to avoid looking at those glassy eyes. It took a full five minutes to untangle the raven from the thorns, and by the time he was, both her hands and his entire body looked worse for the wear. At least they were still alive.

Diablo's amber gaze fell on William's body. He hovered over it for a moment, as though mentally confirming that he was truly dead, before flitting back to Maleficent's shoulder and nuzzling her cheek. She stroked the top of his head absentmindedly, unable to tear her eyes away from William's. The knowledge that she had killed him without thinking about it, without even meaning to, frightened her some. She tried to bring herself to feel sorry for him but couldn't; it probably would have been easier if he hadn't been trying to kill her.

"Come, Diablo," Maleficent murmured. "We should get back to the castle."

She cast her teleportation spell and found herself in the center of the throne room.

"Well speak of the devil."

It was Stefan. He and Leah sat on their thrones, with Flora and Merryweather hovering nearby. For once in her life, Maleficent was glad to see her aunts.

"Thank heavens." She suddenly noticed that Fauna wasn't present. "Where's Mother? I have to tell her –"

"How could you?" Flora croaked, brown eyes wide and frightened. Some of Maleficent's initial relief faded.

"What are you talking about?"

Merryweather stared at her in disbelief.

"Did that boy's life mean so little to you that you don't remember taking it?"

Maleficent froze; they were talking about William. She suddenly realized how it looked – he was dead, and her hands were covered with blood.

"I – I didn't –"

"Didn't murder William Godfrey?" Stefan raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. Maleficent frantically shook her head.

"No! Well, yes, but it was an accident! He was trying to kill _me!_"

From her shoulder, Diablo nodded earnestly.

_/She's right, that boy –/_

"Silence, bird." Merryweather brandished her wand threateningly. Diablo prepared to attack, but Maleficent put a hand on his back to stop him; such aggressive displays were the last thing they needed right now.

"He tried to kill me," she repeated, her eyes locking onto Stefan's. "I was only defending myself."

"That's not what these gentlemen say." Stefan beckoned two young men forward as he spoke, and for the second time that night Maleficent identified William's minions. "They say they heard his neck break and found you standing over their friend's body."

"You'll take their word over mine?" Maleficent's voice quivered slightly. She turned to Flora and Merryweather. "You believe two strangers over your niece?" Her voice raised two octaves. _"Well?"_

"Now, dear." Flora's voice took on the tone one would use to soothe a rabid dog. "Why don't you just calm down before you do something you'll regret?"

"_I have done nothing wrong!"_ Maleficent all but screamed. "It was an accident! It wasn't my fault!" Desperation sinking in, she looked to Leah, who had so far kept silent. "Leah… you believe me, don't you?"

Leah bit her lip.

"I want to believe you, Maleficent," she said softly. "Really I do."

"But you don't, do you?" Maleficent's voice came out sharper than she had intended, and she felt a brief burst of satisfaction when Leah flinched. The queen shook her head.

"No."

Remarkable how such a little word can shatter a person's very being.

"_Once we were friends, and I would like for things to be that way again."_

Lies, lies, all lies! Maleficent's gold eyes raked over Stefan, Flora, Merryweather, and finally Leah, the final drop of hope evaporating when she saw the conviction on their faces. They thought she was guilty purely because of what those boys had said. They didn't believe her. _None_ of them believed her, and the more Maleficent thought about it, the more she realized that had never stood a chance – it was the word of two "upstanding" young men against that of a green-skinned fairy with a perchance for dark magic. The only person Maleficent knew who would side with her was her mother, but Fauna was not here. Maleficent needed her and she was not here. Another lie to add to the list.

Maleficent was not naïve. She could argue and explain until the day she died, but no matter what she did, she would still be the green-skinned fairy that people were afraid to go near. Things would never change. And if they would not change, then perhaps she should make them true.

"Fine." Maleficent barely recognized her voice; it was so icy, so removed. "Know that you have sealed your fates."

"What are you talking about?" Stefan demanded. Maleficent laughed, and everyone present felt their blood run cold.

"I finally understand. You never wanted me to become worthy of your praise, did you? No, you all wanted me to be wicked so that your fear of me would not look quite so _pathetic._ Well, I'm giving you what you want." Maleficent offered the frightened group a chilling, bitter smile. "I hope you're finally satisfied."

"Seize her!"

Green flames flared up around Maleficent's, cackling, rapidly vanishing form, forcing the guards back.

If it was evil Diluculo wanted, it was evil Diluculo would get.

* * *

><p>For the record, I have no idea whyhow I came up with the idea that Maleficent is Fauna's daughter, but it's since stuck.


	3. Jafar

O_O

Wow. More than a year, and I'm only three villains into this story. In my defense, however, this chapter is longer than the others and I needed to rewrite the second half, and that's not counting all the real-world stuff that needed my attention.

But you don't want to hear my excuses, do you? Didn't think so. Okay, first some answers…

**DisneyPrincess**: I will definitely try to write a chapter for Ratigan. I have a soft spot for him myself.

**Marchie**: Fauna was held up on her way back to Diluculo; otherwise the outcomes of both this story and _Sleeping Beauty_ would be quite different. As for what happened after she returned… Doctor Madwoman put it best.

Now, on to the story!

**Disclaimer:** See Chapter One.

* * *

><p><em>She'll never get this.<em>

Cross-legged on the floor of his room, Jafar Samara extended his arm towards the bed until his fingertips were touching the bedpost. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his twin frown and suppressed a smirk; he was only two inches taller than Nasira, but those two inches were all he needed right now.

For the past five minutes, the two eight-year-olds had been painstakingly mimicking each other's movements – such were the rules of their game, Mirror – and if they couldn't, they lost. Neither of them liked to lose.

Her brow furrowed in concentration, Nasira tried to stretch out as Jafar had done, but she came up short. Her eyes narrowed, and she tried again with the same results. A frustrated noise escaped her. Jafar watched with amusement.

"Do you forfeit?"

"Never!" Nasira hissed. Growing desperate now, she repeated herself for a third time, but she had forgotten to steady herself, so she lost her balance and hit the floor with a yelp.

"You lose!" Jafar declared triumphantly, standing up with a proud smirk plastered on his face. Nasira sat up and crossed her arms with an indignant huff.

"I take it you're feeling better, Jafar?"

The new voice pulled Jafar out of his revel, and his eyes brightened when he saw its owner.

"Yes, Mother. My throat doesn't hurt anymore."

Lamya Samara smiled and stepped inside. In the hands was a small cup filled with a steaming liquid, which she gave him.

"Drink this. It will get rid of the remaining sickness."

While Jafar drank the remedy, Lamya kneeled down next to Nasira.

"Don't look so sullen, my dear." She brushed a strand of hair out of her daughter's face. "Now, what will it take to make _you_ feel better? A story, perhaps?"

Nasira perked up immediately. "Yes, Mother!"

"All right, then, a story it is." Lamya settled down on Jafar's bed, and her children readily followed. In their eyes, only Shahrazad herself could compare. "Hmm, now which one to tell you?" Lamya mused, twisting the silver-and-onyx pendant on her necklace. "Ah, yes. The Cave of Wonders will do nicely, I think."

The light coming from the candles dimmed with a wave of her hand and a whispered spell. Jafar and Nasira grinned; their mother's displays of magic, no matter how small, fascinated them. Lamya smiled, her dark eyes observing the rapt attention on their faces, and began to speak.

"Once there lived a young sorcerer and his beautiful bride. They were very much in love but also quite poor, and the sorcerer often wished for a better life for them. He frequently had to leave home for long periods of time in his quest to make this possible. One day, as he traveled the familiar desert route that would bring him back to his wife, a sandstorm blew in. The sorcerer was able to find shelter and was thus unharmed, but when the storm ended, he found himself very lost and abandoned by his horse. For two days he wandered the desert, looking for some sort of relief and finding nothing. At the end of the second day, he collapsed into the sand and waited for death to take him. After a few moments, he spotted something shiny lying near him. Curious, he picked it up and saw that it was an oil lamp. There seemed to be something written on one side, but the sand made it difficult to make out. He scraped it away, and the lamp began to shake and rattle until its mysterious contents were revealed."

"What was in the lamp, Mother?" Nasira asked eagerly.

"A genie," Lamya replied, "abandoned by his previous master once the third wish was used."

Jafar and Nasira exchanged an excited glance before allowing their mother to continue.

"When the Genie asked the sorcerer what his first wish was, he said without thinking 'I wish to be home!' The Genie snapped his fingers, and a carpet appeared before the sorcerer's very eyes."

"A carpet?" Jafar raised an eyebrow.

"Not just any carpet," Lamya assured him. "Like the Genie, the Carpet had a magic all its own. No sooner had the sorcerer sat down than it rose in the air and shot off for his home. When they arrived, the Genie told the sorcerer that he now had two wishes left. Furious with himself for wasting something so valuable, the sorcerer vowed to be more frugal with the others."

Here Lamya could not refrain from rolling her eyes.

"Of course it was only a few days later that he summoned the Genie again, this time wishing for enormous wealth. His wish was granted immediately, and the sorcerer and his wife had more treasure than they knew what to do with. The most beautiful among them was a tiny golden scarab studded with glittering rubies, which the sorcerer gave to his wife. Now there was only one wish left."

"What else could he want?" Jafar asked, sounding a bit exasperated.

"I do not know, my dear, and apparently neither did he. One thing he _did_ know was that he had finally been given a taste of the sort of power he had wanted since childhood, and he wanted more. Most of his time was spent shut away, pondering the best way to achieve this with his final wish. He grew cold and distant to all he met, even his loving wife."

Lamya's tone grew slightly sorrowful as she spoke the last sentence, and she lapsed into silence for a moment, one hand twisting the pendant again.

"Meanwhile, there was a stir in the sorcerer's village. It is of course not normal for someone to become fabulously wealthy overnight, and as the sorcerer had told only his wife about the Genie, people began to wonder how he acquired the treasures. One particularly outspoken man with the humble profession of woodcutter voiced the opinion that the sorcerer's methods had not been what could be called legal, or even humane."

"Uh-oh," Jafar muttered to himself. This could only end badly.

"When this reached the sorcerer's ears, his rage was a terrible thing to see. What right, he thought, did a lowly woodcutter have to spread such lies against someone as powerful as he? He ordered the Genie to kill the woodcutter. The Genie, however, was unable to do this, for genies cannot kill. Angered further by the Genie's refusal, the sorcerer set out to do the deed himself. His wife, who had overheard everything, decided to go and warn the woodcutter. When he arrived at the woodcutter's home, the sorcerer saw a shadow-cloaked figure creeping about outside. Thinking it to be the woodcutter, he struck out and delivered a death blow with the aid of his magic. But when he went to see the body, he discovered that it was _not_ the woodcutter who lay dead. It was his wife."

Nasira gasped, and Jafar's eyes widened in alarm. Lamya's face grew somber.

"Horror overcame the sorcerer when he saw what he had done. He begged the Genie to restore her, offering his own life in exchange, but this too the Genie was unable to do. After a period of mourning, the sorcerer realized what had to be done. With his third wish, he created an elaborate cave that would later be called the Cave of Wonders. Inside of it he placed the Carpet, the lamp, and all the treasure the Genie had given him with the exception of the golden scarab. As part of the sorcerer's wish, the Cave gained a life of its own, able to judge those who wished to enter and see whether or not they were worthy of possessing the lamp's power, as the sorcerer had not been. When the Cave had been sealed, the sorcerer divided the scarab into two pieces and hid them across the far reaches of the desert."

A mysterious smile crossed Lamya's face.

"It is said that if the two pieces are reunited, they will lead the way to the Cave of Wonders, and if the Cave deems you worthy, you may enter and see the glorious treasures within."

Nasira tilted her head to one side, looking puzzled. "But how does the Cave know if you're worthy or not?"

"Only one sort of person may go into the Cave's depths and come back to tell of it. One whose worth lies far within."

"A diamond in the rough," Jafar whispered.

"Exactly." Lamya brushed strands of black hair from her face. "That's the end of the story, I'm afraid. Time for bed, you two."

"Just one more story, Mother!" Jafar implored.

"Please!" Nasira stretched her eyes out wide.

"There is no such thing as 'just one more story' with the two of you," Lamya said, sounding amused. "And it is late enough as it is." Seeing the disappointed looks on her children's faces, she added, "Though perhaps if you hurry, I shall find time to tell more stories tomorrow. What do you say?"

The two brightened considerably at the thought and nodded. Lamya chuckled.

"I thought so. Nasira, go to your room; I'll be along shortly."

"Goodnight, Mother! Goodnight, Jafar!" Nasira wrapped her arms around her mother's waist in a quick hug and dashed to her bedroom. Jafar slipped under his blanket, a question emblazoned in his mind.

"Where's the Genie now?"

"Well, assuming there has been no diamond in the rough since the sorcerer's time, I assume it is still in the Cave of Wonders."

"Oh." Jafar paused. "What would _you_ wish for, Mother?"

Lamya thought for a moment before replying, "I'm afraid I don't know, my dear, but I'm sure I have plenty of time to think it over. No one has seen the Cave of Wonders since the sorcerer sealed it."

"I bet I could find it," Jafar insisted.

"I don't doubt that." Lamya pulled the blanket up to his chin. "But your quest will have to wait until you've gotten some sleep."

She waved a hand and said the incantation once more, and the candle's flame was extinguished. Jafar's reply caught in his throat when his gaze suddenly landed on the shadowed figure standing in the doorway. The figure glared first at the candle, then Lamya, and finally Jafar, who shrank back despite himself. Lamya's face tensed.

"Sleep, Jafar," Her voice was soft and soothing, too low for the shadow to hear. "I'll deal with him." She kissed his forehead. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Mother."

Lamya stood up and left the room. Not three seconds after the door was closed, Jafar heard his father's rough voice speak.

"More stories, witch?"

"Not here, Tariq." Lamya suddenly sounded weary. "Let them sleep."

"Do not think you can order me about," Tariq growled.

"I do not wish to argue with you," Lamya said quietly. "Particularly when there is nothing to argue about."

Tariq's reply was too low to hear, but the anger in it was plain. Jafar had been an unwilling eavesdropper to enough of these arguments to pick up on the rhythm they had: Tariq would try to start a fight over something that was petty and idiotic but held some strange importance to him. Although she was more inclined to be cold if (she thought) Jafar and Nasira were asleep, Lamya always tried to diffuse his anger to no avail. When she refused to take the bait, Tariq would devolve to simply insulting her, calling her a witch and a she-devil and every other foul thing he could think of. Lamya would bear the taunts in silence until he at last ran out of steam and was overcome by exhaustion.

Tariq's voice suddenly grew louder; Jafar pulled the blanket over his head to try and block out his father's hateful words and succeeded only in dulling them. He knew what _he_ would wish for if he had the Genie's lamp: a way for Tariq to accept Lamya and her magic.

* * *

><p>"Nasira, wake up!"<p>

"Go away," Nasira muttered, pulling her blanket tighter around herself. Jafar merely shook her shoulder harder.

"Come on." He lowered his voice. "Mother said she was going to give us our surprise before she took us to the bazaar, remember?"

The two had turned ten yesterday, and Lamya had promised them something very special. Whenever her children tried to get her to reveal what it was, she would smile mysteriously and say, "You'll find out."

Nasira sat up with a yawn. She wanted the surprise as much as Jafar did.

"Give me a moment."

Jafar left the room so Nasira could get ready. A shadow fell over the boy, and he turned to find Tariq standing over him, pale eyes narrowed and arms folded across his chest.

"And what, pray tell, are _you_ doing awake so early?"

Jafar said nothing.

"Speak, boy!" Tariq spat. "Have you gone deaf?"

Jafar opened his mouth, but no sound came out. From behind him, there was the sound of a door opening.

"Good morning, Father," Nasira's voice sounded respectfully from her brother's right side. Tariq's attention shifted to his daughter, and he favored her with an affectionate look. Or rather, his version of an affectionate look.

"Good morning, Nasira. Perhaps _you_ can answer my question." He gave Jafar a pointed look before turning his gaze back to Nasira. She nodded.

"Mother wants us to go to the bazaar with her," she said. Her tone was casual, but Jafar could hear the careful, deliberate wording. She dared not lie outright to their father.

"Oh." Tariq scowled at the mention of Lamya. "I'll see you when you return, Nasira." Without another word to Jafar, he turned and strode away, muttering something under his breath about arranged marriages. Nasira cast her twin a sympathetic look, but Jafar merely shrugged. It was no secret that Tariq favored her, most likely because she was not quite so open in her support for Lamya and her magic.

"Come on, Mother's waiting."

Lamya was in her bedroom, fully dressed and brushing her long hair at the vanity when they came in. A smile crossed her face when she saw Jafar and Nasira.

"Ah, here you are; I was beginning to wonder if you were coming. Could you close the door for me, please?" When her children had done what she had asked, she set the hairbrush down and turned to face them. "Would you like your surprises now?"

"Yes, Mother!"

"All right, all right," Lamya said with a small laugh. "I won't make you wait any longer." Rising from the vanity, she plucked a hairbrush and a bottle of perfume from its smooth wooden surface before gently laying them on her bed. "Things aren't always what they seem, my dears," the sorceress remarked, seeing the confusion on Jafar and Nasira's faces. "It's a lesson you would do well to learn. I had to have them take these forms so your father wouldn't find out about them."

"An illusion spell?" Jafar whispered, looking at the items in a new light.

"That's right." Lamya looked pleased. "Any guesses as to what they are?" She received only puzzled looks. "Well then, you'll find out now."

She chanted an incantation, and the items glowed white. Their forms changed, growing longer and thinner until the objects' true identities were revealed: they were staffs. One was in the shape of a golden cobra with ruby eyes and teeth bared in defiance. The other, while not as intimidating, was no less rich-looking. While it too was golden in color, it was topped with a red, orange, and yellow zigzag design. Both had the appearance of being almost obsessively well-cared for.

Lamya made sure that the door was firmly closed before addressing her children again.

"I need your complete and undivided attention. Do I have it?" When Jafar and Nasira nodded, she continued, "While my parents were alive, these staffs bound themselves to the magic inside them and acted as channels to the outside world. It's a job that they'll now do for you. They are _not_ toys, so you have to be very careful with them. They've survived eight years in this house without your father finding out about them, and I would prefer that it stay this way. Understand?"

"Yes, Mother," Jafar said solemnly. Nasira nodded. Lamya smiled and pulled them close for a brief hug.

"We'll have your first lesson this afternoon, but first I have to run an errand. Do you want to come with me?"

Both children nodded quickly. The alternative was staying home alone with Tariq, and not even Nasira wanted that.

The errand turned out to be a visit to the apothecary to replenish Lamya's herb supply, and it passed as quickly as she had promised. The trouble came when they were returning home. Loud gasps pulled Jafar from his thoughts about learning magic, and his eyes widened when he saw the reason for them.

An elderly man looking to be on his last legs was stumbling through the bazaar, his mouth stained with blood. He collapsed at Lamya's feet and lay still, coughing pitifully.

"Help me…" he wheezed, looking up at her with desperate eyes. Lamya moved Jafar and Nasira behind her before bending down to the man's level.

"I will," she assured him. "I will. What's happened to you?"

"Please, I –" The man was interrupted by a coughing fit. Blood flecked the golden sand. With a final, shuddering cough, the man's head flopped to the ground and he moved no more. Jafar quietly stepped around his mother and saw that traces of the man's blood dotted her face. She wiped it away with a shaking hand and looked back at the man's body. Jafar's eyes followed hers, and he felt Nasira's clammy hand squeeze his.

"What do you think was wrong with him?" she whispered into his ear. Jafar could only shake his head. He sometimes got to see Lamya's patients and their ailments, but he had never before witnessed anything like this, and from the expression on his mother's face, she hadn't either. He didn't know which was scarier.

* * *

><p>"Mother?"<p>

When Lamya didn't respond, Jafar tentatively poked her shoulder. This stirred her from her stupor, dark eyes shifting to her son and the cup of mint tea in his hands. She offered him a weak smile and took it quietly.

"Thank you, my dear," she murmured. Jafar nodded and turned his attention to her desk. Crumpled papers and open books littered its surface, as they had since that day in the bazaar six months ago. In that time, the mysterious disease had spread from person to person, killing with remarkable ease. It started like any normal illness and ended with a cough filled with blood. Lamya was beseeched by sick people begging for her aid, but until the disease was identified, the best she could was help with coughs and try to ease their pain. Jafar knew it was hurting her not to be able to help others in their time of need.

"Do you have anything?" he inquired tentatively. Lamya nodded and put her cup down.

"Perhaps." She pulled a book from the pile and pointed to a specific paragraph. "There seems to have been a similar disease some twenty years ago. It was treated with a mixture of herbs that included isonia and rifama." A frown crossed her face. "I don't have either of those. Perhaps if I can get to the apothecary before it closes…"

"I'll go for you," Jafar offered. Lamya's frown deepened.

"It's late, and there's sickness in the air."

"I'll be careful, Mother," Jafar insisted. "Besides, if you send me out, you'll have more time to prepare the rest of the cure."

One look at Lamya's face told Jafar that he had said the right thing. She had begun to bite her lower lip, dark eyes glittering with thought.

"Very well," she said at last, taking a piece of paper and writing something on it. "Ask the apothecary for these herbs, and _don't dawdle."_

"Yes, Mother."

Jafar took the paper and offered coins before setting out. The streets were disquietingly empty, even for this time of night. The only sound was that of the wind whistling through Agrabah. Jafar suppressed a shudder and quickly made his way to the apothecary. It was a bleak little place run by Adel, a tall, gaunt man with an odd look in his eyes. Jafar didn't much like him; quietly, he handed him the paper Lamya had written the herb names on and set the coins down on the counter. Adel read the list and shook his head.

"I can't give you the isonia," he said.

"Why not?" Jafar demanded. "My mother needs it for her cure."

"The Sultan has banned isonia from Agrabah. His doctors say that it's poisonous."

Jafar frowned. What Adel was saying flew in the face of everything Lamya had told him. Perhaps she had been mistaken?

"Well… what about everything else?"

"That I can do."

Adel went into his backroom and returned moments later with the assorted herbs. Jafar took them quietly and went home.

Lamya's mood was not enhanced when she heard about the isonia.

"There must be some mistake," she mused, almost to herself. "There was no mention of any sort of side effects when it was used twenty years ago." Biting her lip so fiercely Jafar was mildly surprised that it was still in one piece, Lamya again sought out her book. "Nothing," she repeated.

"What happens now?"

To Jafar's knowledge, this sort of thing had never happened before. Lamya sighed and ran a hand through her long hair.

"I suppose I'll have to try and persuade the Sultan to see reason."

* * *

><p>"When do you think Mother will come home?" Nasira asked, tapping her nails impatiently against her staff. It had taken two months, but Lamya had finally been granted an audience with the Sultan. Fortunately for Jafar and Nasira, Tariq happened to have business in the bazaar, meaning that they were free to practice their magic until he returned.<p>

"How should I know?"

Jafar had taken up a position near the window. While he had told Nasira that it was to watch for Lamya's return, it was really to scout for any sign of life at all. He had so far been rewarded with emptiness. Even the strays seemed to know something was wrong with Agrabah.

_Tap, tap, tap._

Jafar frowned. Normally, the sound didn't bother him so much, but when it was juxtaposed against the eerie silence both outside and inside, it was unnerving.

_Tap, tap, tap._

He gripped his staff a little tighter.

_Tap, tap, tap._

"Will you stop it?" he snapped, whirling around to face his sister. The tapping stopped abruptly, and Nasira's shoulders slumped, as though she were upset. Jafar's frown deepened. "Nasira? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you."

"It's okay," Nasira murmured. Her voice sounded very far away.

"Are you all right?"

"I think so." Nasira frowned. "When you said to stop… it felt as though something _made_ me stop. Like there was something in my head."

Before Jafar could reply (he made a mental note to ask Lamya about it later), the sound of a door slamming shattered the quiet. The twins' eyes widened, thinking that this meant that their father had returned. Hastily, they hid their staffs underneath Jafar's bed and set about looking as inconspicuous as possible. Footsteps passed outside the door, and a discontented muttering arose. The voice, however, did not belong to Tariq, but Lamya. Jafar raised an eyebrow; Lamya wasn't one for such displays of anger.

When it was quiet once more, Jafar rose and hesitantly went to see what was wrong; Nasira followed without encouragement. The two found Lamya in her bedroom, slumped over and looking miserable.

"Mother?"

Jafar took a hesitant step forward, crossing the threshold. Lamya looked up at the sound of her son's voice, and a weak, slightly forced smile crossed her face. She patted the bed, and her children sat down on either side of her.

"Um, how did your appeal go?" Nasira inquired, twisting her long hair in her fingers. Lamya rolled her eyes; she had calmed down somewhat, but her anger was still readily apparent.

"The Sultan stands by his claim that isonia is poisonous, despite all evidence to the contrary." She sighed. "His doctors and advisers all tell him different things and he is unable to make decisions on his own. Until he comes to his senses, people will…" She bit her lip and allowed herself to trail off. "Never mind. Tell me, how did your practice go?"

Torn between disappointment and relief that the subject had been changed, Jafar told her about what had happened just before she came home, with Nasira occasionally chiming in. When they had finished, Lamya's smile seemed to be less forced.

"It would appear that the staff has a hidden property to it," she observed. "Hypnotism. I've heard of it, but I've never actually –"

Her words were interrupted by a cough. Jafar and Nasira exchanged an alarmed glance before turning their attention back to her.

"Mother, are you all right?"

"Yes, Nasira, perfectly –" Another cough came, then another. Lamya put a hand over her mouth to try and muffle them, but it was a fruitless task – they just kept coming. After what seemed like an eternity, her throat shuddered and with a particularly hard cough, the fit ended. She pulled her hand away, and mother and children stared at it in horror.

Lamya's palm was painted with blood.

* * *

><p>Though the sound of coughing had become all-too-familiar over the last two years, Jafar still winced when it reached his ears. Immediately, he stopped what he was doing – cleaning the cobra staff – and made his way to the source of it, Lamya's bedroom. He reached the door and found Nasira standing there as well, red-eyed and looking as though she hadn't slept properly in days. Probably because she hadn't. Neither of them had. The twelve-year-olds had taken up the task of caring for Lamya. She had taken care of them when they were sick, and so they would do the same.<p>

Their mother – or at least what was left of her – was lying on her bed, propped up by pillows. Tangled black hair spread out beneath her like a cape, and dark circles lingered around her eyes. She had grown paler and gaunter as well – she was nearly the color of her nightdress. Her coughs had ended for the moment, eyes darting to the doorway. A weak smile crossed her face when she saw her children.

"Hello, Mother," Jafar said quietly. He moved to adjust her pillows. "Do you need something?"

"No, thank you." Lamya shook her head. "You've both done so much for me already."

The coughs began anew, and Jafar and Nasira jumped back as small specks of blood dotted the blanket. Shaking, Nasira handed her a rag from the bedside table, and Lamya used it to wipe her face. Jafar suddenly realized that Lamya wasn't wearing her necklace. This struck him as unusual; he couldn't remember ever seeing her without it.

"Thank you, Nasira," Lamya murmured, settling back amongst the pillows.

"It's no trouble. You're sure there's nothing you want?"

Lamya started to shake her head again and paused, a thoughtful look in her eyes.

"Nasira, could you get something from my drawer? You'll know it when you see it."

Nasira did so and withdrew Lamya's onyx-and-silver necklace. A strange feeling of dread overcame Jafar.

"Do you know what this is, Nasira?" Lamya inquired.

"Your favorite necklace, Mother."

"Yes, but it's much more than that. It's an heirloom, my dear, handed down for generations. It belonged to my mother and hers before her. Now it's yours."

A horrible thought occurred to Jafar. Mother wouldn't part with her necklace unless…

The same thought seemed to have entered Nasira's mind as well; Jafar could see tears running down her face. Lamya sat up as best as she could and pulled them close to her. Nasira buried her face in her lap while Jafar nestled into her side. He found that if he shut his eyes, he could pretend that the current situation was nothing more than a hurt knee or a fight with Nasira. He would have given anything for it to be so.

Even with his eyes closed, Jafar felt the shadow wash over him, and sure enough, Tariq was standing in the doorway when he opened them. Tariq was the only member of the Samara household _not_ upset by Lamya's illness. Quite the contrary, Jafar hadn't seen his father this happy since… well, ever. He'd even caught him _humming_ a few nights ago.

"Go away," Lamya whispered, drawing her children still closer. Nasira looked up, and Jafar felt her squeeze his hand. "Please."

"There's no need to be rude." Tariq stepped into the room, a cold smirk fixed upon his face. "I just wanted to see if you were feeling any better." When Lamya didn't reply, he remarked, "You surprise me. I would have thought you would just use your _magic_ to give yourself a cure."

"Stop it," Lamya begged, and Jafar was amazed to see that her eyes were glistening with unshed tears; it had been nine years since he had last seen her cry. "Not now. Please not now."

"Why not? Because you're unwilling to admit that your witchcraft isn't as wonderful as you've brainwashed them –" Tariq gestured to Jafar and Nasira "– into believing?"

"_Stop it!_ We don't want you here, so _go away!"_

It took Jafar a couple of seconds to realize both that the person who had spoken those words was him and that Tariq was giving him a look that could have frozen over Jahannam.

"_What_ did you say?"

_Oh Allah, Father's going to kill me, please don't let it hurt too badly –_

Nasira rose and stepped in front of her brother.

"Please, Father." Her voice was quivering. "He – he didn't mean it. It's just that it's late, and we're both very tired. Jafar didn't mean to say that to you. It was a mistake."

Tariq calmed down enough that Jafar wasn't fearful for his life. With a "good night" to Nasira and a final triumphant glance at Lamya, he left. Jafar felt a hand on his shoulder.

"It's time for bed." Both Jafar and Nasira opened their mouths to protest, but Lamya was firm. "It's late, and you should have been asleep over an hour ago. I won't have you tiring yourselves out. Bed."

"Yes, Mother," Jafar muttered. Nasira nodded reluctantly, but before either of them could stand up, Lamya suddenly pulled them into a crushing hug. "Too tight," Jafar protested, trying to squirm away. Lamya reluctantly loosened her hold. Jafar blinked the stars away and turned to face his mother. She wore a cryptic expression, as though guarding a secret. "Goodnight, Mother."

"Sleep well, my dears."

Jafar didn't look back when he left Lamya's bedroom. It was a decision he would later come to regret.

* * *

><p>The next morning, Jafar knocked on Lamya's door, a cup of fresh mint tea in one hand. The door swung open at his touch, and he poked his head inside.<p>

"Mother, are you awake? I have…"

He trailed off when he saw that his mother was still lying down, her head turned away from him. She must not have woken up yet – the idea relieved him some. Sleep had avoided Lamya since her symptoms began to show. Jafar decided to leave the tea on her bedside table for when she awoke. He stepped into the room to do just that and felt the cup slide from his hands.

Lamya's eyes were still open.

"Mother?" Shaking, Jafar put a hand to her hand, dangling limply off the bed, and withdrew it immediately; her skin was so very cold. Cold as death. "Mother, wake up. Please wake up."

Unsurprisingly, Lamya didn't move. Jafar put an ear to her chest, desperately listening for a heartbeat and getting only silence. The boy was stunned. Somehow it had never crossed his mind that Lamya would one day die. She couldn't die – she was Mother. Mother made everything better.

"Jafar?"

He jumped at the sound of his name and turned to find Nasira standing behind him, wide-eyed and trembling as he was. Already tears were shining on her face. Quietly, she reached over and closed Lamya's eyes.

"There." A sniff. "N-Now she's sleep – sleep –"

Nasira broke, and Jafar found himself succumbing to tears of his own.

* * *

><p>Lamya's funeral was a small but somber affair. As she and Tariq had no living family save for their children, her mourners consisted of former patients and friends. Nasira kept a tight grip on Jafar's wrist most of the time, as though terrified that he too would die if she let go for even a second. Jafar didn't object – if it helped her feel better about all of this, then so be it. The onyx-and-silver necklace was tucked into her pocket; she refused to put it on, claiming that it still belonged to her mother.<p>

Tariq could barely keep the smile off his face. Jafar found himself wondering why no one else noticed. Even Nasira didn't seem to realize it – when she wasn't clinging to him, her arms were wound securely around their father's arm – or perhaps she was simply too upset to care. For his part, Tariq seemed to be genuine when he comforted her, caressing her hair and rubbing her shoulders. All the same, Jafar avoided him when Nasira wasn't around.

Though he had been taught to believe that death wasn't the end, Jafar was finding it difficult to think of it as anything else. He couldn't even think about his mother without feeling as though someone had begun choking him. The funeral seemed to be unbearably long. Even so, Jafar found himself wishing that it had not ended when Tariq brought him and Nasira home in the evening. Without Lamya's presence, the house seemed cold and empty.

"Nasira, you look exhausted," Tariq observed, hands going to her shoulders. "Perhaps you should retire early, yes?"

Nasira nodded vaguely in reply and started up the stairs to her bedroom. Jafar tried to follow her and was stopped by the feeling of his father's cold hand on his shoulder. His throat tightened.

When Nasira was out of sight and the distance-muted sound of her door closing was heard, Tariq whirled Jafar around, and the next thing the boy felt was a fist collide with his nose. Blood spurted from the wound, and he dropped to his knees with a small cry of pain, eyes welling up with tears.

"_That_ was for your impudence two nights prior." Tariq's voice was filled with relish. He bent down and forced Jafar to his feet. "Now that _she's_ not here to coddle you, things are going to be a little different, boy. Make no mistake about it."

* * *

><p>Jafar spent the next three days keeping as low a profile as possible. While he had never tried to provoke his father in the past, he now had to be extremely careful not to upset him in any way; Lamya could no longer keep him safe. Unfortunately, Tariq seemed to be determined to take revenge for every instance where he had been unable to lay a hand on him.<p>

Once the mourning period ended, however, a change seemed to come over Tariq. He was pleasant to both of them, and even patted Jafar on the back at one point. It didn't make any sense until later that night, when Jafar was roughly shaken awake.

"Jafar!" Nasira hissed, her voice sharp and urgent. "Jafar, wake up! Now!"

"What do you want?" Jafar muttered, reluctantly sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

"I – I couldn't sleep, so I went to get some water, and I heard voices." Jafar became aware of his sister's trembling. "There are people talking with Father downstairs. Jafar, I – I think that he's going to make you go with them."

That woke Jafar up.

"What?"

Nasira nodded, dark eyes wide and fearful. "Listen for yourself."

She grabbed his wrist and led him to the base of the stairs. Unfamiliar voices drifted up from the first floor, followed closely by Tariq's oily one.

"Now, then, gentlemen, are we in agreement?"

"This boy," a rough voice spoke. "You say he'll be able to do the sort of work we require?"

"Certainly," Tariq replied smoothly. "So long as the price is right."

There was the clanking of coins. Jafar felt all the blood flee from his face.

"You have to get out of here," Nasira whispered. Her brother nodded, and the twins bolted back to his bedroom. No time to get anything, save for the cobra staff. Had to get away, had to get away. Jafar was halfway through the window when he suddenly paused and turned to Nasira.

"Will you be okay?"

The thought of his sister being alone with Tariq made Jafar sick to his stomach. She nodded in reply.

"Fine. Don't worry about me."

Jafar supposed that this was true; she was Father's favorite, after all. Every last one of his instincts was screaming for him to get out of there now, yet he continued to look at Nasira. Wordlessly, the two embraced fiercely – Allah knew when they would see each other again.

"Bye, Nasira," Jafar said quietly, pulling away and climbing out the window. He thought he heard Nasira whisper something in reply, but he didn't stop long enough to listen properly. The collision with the ground was a hard one; Jafar barely noticed this either. His thoughts were focused on getting away from this home that was no longer a home. Even when he had gotten out of Agrabah, he didn't stop.

Only when the sun was high in the sky did Jafar stop and rest, body shaking from exhaustion, hunger, and thirst. The sun beat down mercilessly on his unprotected form, and Jafar found himself thinking about Lamya's story, the one about the Cave of Wonders and the sorcerer. How the sorcerer had gotten lost in the desert after a sandstorm. Was this to be his fate now? Would he be doomed to wander the desert in a self-imposed exile, never to see his sister again?

Before he fainted, Jafar saw that the sand beneath him was black.

* * *

><p>The darkness seemed to stretch on forever, all-consuming and without escape. Jafar didn't mind. It was nice and cool here. There were no fathers who tried to get rid of you – there wasn't anyone, actually. Just him. This seemed like the perfect place to rest his eyes…<p>

The calm was shattered by a single, cold demand.

"On your feet, boy."

Jafar opened his eyes, mildly disappointed that the darkness hadn't been real, and found that he was lying on a stone floor so cold it stung. Quickly, he stood up and nearly collapsed from the rush of dizziness he received.

"Good, that's very good," the cold voice murmured. Jafar glanced up and felt the strangest urge to run screaming from the room.

Perched on an ornate black throne was a man who looked as though he could have passed for a breathing corpse. His waxy skin glowed white under the light of several torches. There was no turban upon his head, allowing for a clear view of his thick black hair. Black eyes peered out from a sunken face, boring into Jafar as though staring directly into his very soul and smirking at what he found. In his hands, one covered by a gauntlet, was the cobra staff, the gold contrasting sharply with his dark robes.

"Hey!" Jafar cried. "Give that back, it's mine!"

He started to take a step forward, but something in the man's eyes stopped him.

"And how did you come by this?"

"None of your business!" Jafar snapped. "And don't call me boy. My name's Jafar."

"I shall call you whatever I please, _boy,_" the man growled. "Seeing as you're in my kingdom. Do you even know who I am?" When Jafar shook his head, he continued, "I am the sorcerer Destane, Lord of the Land of the Black Sand. _You_, however, are a common trespasser. By right, I should feed you to the mamluks."

He gestured to his right, and this time Jafar _did_ let out a short scream. Bodies, undead bodies, stood next to the wall, sallow-skinned and vacant-eyed, staring at him much in the way a cat watches a mouse. The smell of death and rotting flesh slowly wafted over to Jafar, forcing him to stifle a gag. Destane's smirk widened.

"Can you give me a reason why I shouldn't? Think quickly, now. They're hungry."

"I – I –" Jafar's eyes darted back to the mamluks. "I can help you!"

"Oh? And with what?"

"Anything you want. Anything."

Destane's face seemed to split open with the force of the smirk. His thin lips parted slightly, revealing teeth that were startling both in their sharpness and whiteness.

"Excellent. Now, there's just the matter of how you acquired this staff and what brought you to my doorstep in the first place."

Before Jafar could reply, a bizarre sensation hit him – it was as though a bug was crawling around inside his head. Mere seconds later, he saw his ten-year-old self sitting with Nasira, the staffs at their sides. Lamya sat across from them, smiling, the picture of health. Jafar clung to the memory, to his mother's image, but it was taken from him as quickly as it had come. Pain overwhelmed him, forcing him onto his knees, clutching his head in agony. Lamya's lovely face twisted into Tariq's sneering one, and though he was merely a spectator this time around, Jafar again felt his fist on his face. Voices whispered of his father's treachery, and Nasira looked at him fearfully…

And quite suddenly, the pain ended, leaving Jafar gasping for breath on the floor.

"Perfect." Destane's eyes flashed. "Welcome to the Land of the Black Sand."

* * *

><p>Jafar shivered and wrapped his arms around his knees in a futile attempt to keep warm. He hated being in the dungeon – it was freezing, and the cell was so small that it felt as though the walls were closing in around him.<p>

The sound of a door creaking open filled the room, and suddenly Destane was standing over him, black eyes cold and gauntlet-clad hand squeezed into a fist. Jafar forced himself to meet his poisonous gaze.

Two years had passed since he had come to the Land of the Black Sand, but it had only taken Jafar a day to realize that in becoming Destane's "apprentice," he had merely traded one prison for another. Here he was worked to the bone and without even his sister's company to make it bearable, the silent but ever-present threat of punishment keeping him from putting a toe out of line. Most of the time. Today while cleaning Destane's laboratory, Jafar had accidentally knocked over an hourglass that the older sorcerer claimed had magical abilities, causing it to shatter.

Needless to say, Destane wasn't happy. Hence the reason Jafar was in the dungeon.

"You'll be pleased to know that your stupidity has been corrected." A cruel gleam had appeared in Destane's eyes. "However, there is still the matter of your punishment."

Before Jafar could brace himself, his mind was under assault. He clutched his head, powerless to stop the memories from flooding him again…

_He was three, waiting impatiently for his sister to wake up from her nap. Lamya had made baklava, and they had each been promised a piece when their naps were over. The only problem was that Nasira was taking _forever.

_Jafar's stomach growled, and he looked longingly in the direction of the kitchen. Maybe Lamya wouldn't notice if he took just a little bit of baklava. He'd give Nasira the extra-big piece he'd wanted so that it would be fair –_

"_Spiteful witch!"_

_Tariq's yell made Jafar flinch. He was angry again. Even at this tender age, the boy knew that it was best to make yourself scarce when Tariq was angry. Thoughts of baklava gone, Jafar started to go to his room and was stopped when a new voice rang out – Lamya's voice._

"_You _dare _call _me_ spiteful, you heartless abomination?"_

_Jafar's eyes widened. Lamya _never_ yelled. Whatever they were fighting about, it was really bad. His curiosity aroused, he ran in the direction of the shouting – Lamya's bedroom – just in time to see Tariq's fist strike a blow to Lamya's jaw. She stumbled backwards with a cry of pain, unaware of the fact that her son was hidden behind the wall, frozen with fear. Tariq raised a hand to hit her again, but this time Lamya was prepared and caught it in her own. They stood there, silent and glaring, until Tariq dug his nails into her palm, drawing blood. Lamya whispered something unintelligible, and Tariq's hand ignited. He released her with a pained shriek and tried desperately to extinguish the flames. Lamya quickly recited the counter spell, looking horrified by what she'd done._

"_I –Tariq, I didn't –"_

_Tariq snarled something unrepeatable and shoved her into the vanity table before leaving the room, casting an icy glare to Jafar as he did. A small, pained moan reached the boy's ears. He looked around to find his mother still lying on the floor, tears glistening on her cheeks. The dark beginning of a bruise was already noticeable on her jaw._

"_Mama?"_

_Lamya's body went rigid, dark eyes darting to the doorway and locking onto Jafar's. She wiped the tears away quickly and beckoned for him to come forward. He did, head resting against her chest so he could listen to her heartbeat. Normally the sound calmed him, but today it was wild and erratic, and he whimpered upon hearing it. Lamya's arms wound around his tiny form._

"_Shh." It was hard to tell whether her voice or body was shaking more. "It's okay, everything's going to be okay, my dear. Mama's going to make everything better again."_

"_Does it hurt?" Jafar pulled away slightly to look up at his mother's face. She shook her head, but somehow he could feel that she was lying. Tentatively, he brought his fingers to his lips and laid them on her jaw, right where the bruise was forming. "Better?"_

"_Yes," Lamya whispered. "Yes, much better. Thank you."_

_She hugged him tightly again, and Jafar felt the top of his head grow moist…_

"You know how to make them stop," Destane purred, black eyes charged with excitement, as though he fed off of his charge's pain. Jafar gritted his teeth, determined that he wasn't going to give in, not this time, not this time. It made no difference to Destane – he knew exactly what to do to break his apprentice's will…

_Lamya lay in her bed, dying so slowly, Nasira's eyes vacant and hollow from lack of sleep, Tariq's final triumph, Mother, wake up –_

"Stop it," Jafar croaked, trying and failing to ignore the little voice whispering that he was pathetic for going along with the sorcerer's twisted game. Again. "Please – just make it stop."

Destane's grin was enough to make the teenager want to vomit.

"Well, since you asked so nicely." The pain ended, bringing with it a relief so great that even the frigid dungeon air felt like a gift from Allah Himself. "You'll stay here tonight without dinner. Pleasant dreams."

The door slammed shut, and Jafar was left alone with his newly-revitalized memories. Dawn seemed to take centuries to come.

* * *

><p>There was one good aspect about scrubbing the floors – as long as you worked quickly, the water was nice and warm. Bearing this in mind, Jafar dipped his hands in the bucket before setting to work on the space outside of Destane's laboratory. The door was slightly open, and he could vaguely hear the older sorcerer muttering a spell of sorts and paused to listen. While officially his magical training had crawled to a halt after Lamya became sick, he had begun learning some things in secret from spying on Destane.<p>

The spell was too low to hear. Jafar scowled and moved closer, dark eyes peering through the crack in the doorway and widening at what they saw. The hourglass he had accidentally broken had more than quadrupled in size, taking up almost all of the room. Golden sand swirled within its depths.

"Part, sands of time, reveal to me…"

Even though Destane's voice had again grown incoherent and his body was blocking quite a bit of the hourglass, Jafar was able to see flashes of images. They meant nothing to him, but Destane seemed satisfied. He spoke the counter spell, and the hourglass shrank back down to its normal size. Jafar scrambled to get back to the bucket just as Destane emerged from his laboratory.

One trip to what passed as his room to retrieve his staff later, Jafar was standing in the middle of the room himself. The hair on the back of his neck stood up; this was the first time he'd ever been in the laboratory alone. Dark eyes went to the hourglass, sitting inconspicuously on the desk. There was a book next to it, flipped open to a specific page. Jafar looked at it and found a drawing of the hourglass and what appeared to be a diamond ring. The paragraph separating the two explained that when the provided spell was recited, the hourglass would show you what you desired. Without the spell, the Blue Diamond was needed.

Jafar stole a glance at the hourglass and suddenly thought of Nasira. It had been six years since he had seen her last. How had things been for her? Was Tariq treating her well? Now was his chance to find out.

Jafar spoke the required spell and watched as the hourglass began to grow.

"Part, sands of time, reveal to me Nasira Samara."

The sand stirred beneath the polished glass, ready to comply. It took just seconds for Nasira's image to appear. It would have surprised Jafar to see her as an eighteen-year-old (he still imagined her as a scrawny adolescent) had he not been so concerned with the fact that there was blood running down her chin. She was on her knees coughing, almost _choking_ on it; her entire mouth must have been full. Tariq was just _standing_ there, not helping or doing anything at all, looking almost _pleased_ with what was happening to her –

The images ended abruptly, and Destane's cold voice rang out in the now-silent laboratory.

"Like a moth to a flame, you are." He stood in the doorway, lips curled into a disturbing smile. "Do you think I'm blind, boy? Do you think I didn't see you watching me? Didn't you think it was a bit _too_ convenient that the book was opened to just the right page?"

"Destane, my sister –!"

"Silence!" Destane snarled, stepping closer. "I've suspected for some time that you've been learning magic behind my back, and now I know that I was right. You'll have to be punished for this, you know."

"I don't care, just listen! My sister – she's sick or hurt or something, she needs help –!"

"That's hardly my problem," Destane drawled. "And if you truly cared for her, you wouldn't have left her."

His blood boiling, Jafar started to recite a spell he'd read for a fire blast. Before he had gotten past the second word, Destane had retaliated, sending the boy slamming against the wall screaming in white-hot pain. It was as though a fire had begun to burn within his veins. Destane let him suffer for a full thirty seconds before recalling the spell.

"Impudent child! I'll teach you some respect!"

A new sensation overcame Jafar; it felt as though something was being torn from him. He looked at the snake staff out of the corner of his eye and felt them both widen when he saw that the snake's mouth was slowly closing. When it was completely shut, the sensation ended.

"What did you do?" he croaked. Destane's nasty smile widened.

"I've blocked your magic. Perhaps I'll give it back someday if you're a good boy." He strode to his apprentice and hoisted him up by the neck. "Come now, time for your punishment."

"No –" A fruitless struggle began. "You can't – _Nasira_!"

That night in the dungeon cell, Jafar saw his sister's bloodied face far more times than he had ever wanted.

* * *

><p>Once his punishment was over and his head had cleared, Jafar gave serious thought to escaping the Land of the Black Sand. At the very least, Nasira had fallen ill with what had killed their mother, and at worst… well, he didn't want to think about that. Either way, his sister needed help, and Jafar couldn't lose her too.<p>

He called upon all his knowledge of the Land of the Black Sand when formulating his plan. At night, mamluks were deployed to all the citadel's entrances and exits save for a medium-sized radius beneath Destane's second-floor window, most likely because of the smell. Destane's window also happened to be the only window that didn't have a heavy lock keeping it from opening. If he waited until Destane was occupied in his laboratory, Jafar reasoned, he could climb out the window and make his bid for freedom.

The idea worked perfectly on paper, but when the time came to actually climb out the window, Jafar found himself rapidly losing confidence in his plan.

_I can't do this, it'll never work, it's a stupid plan, I'll get punished –_

Nasira's pleading face filled his memory. Jafar gritted his teeth and forced himself up. He would risk it. For her, he would risk it.

Sticking the staff in his sash and taking great care not to look down, Jafar began his descent. He was fortunate in one aspect – the citadel's walls provided with numerous hand and foot holes. He was careful to keep his pace slow, lest he fall and break his neck.

Jafar was a little over halfway down when the sensation of electrocution hit him. His grip on the wall slipped, sending him to the ground in a heap. Pain exploded within him, but Jafar had no time to take inventory on what had been damaged. Destane's voice filled the air, and he sounded angrier than Jafar had ever heard him before.

"_Get him! STOP HIM!"_

The next second, mamluks seemed to be swarming him from every angle. Jafar swore under his breath – he should have guessed that Destane would have some way of protecting the citadel. Forcing himself to rise and ignoring the screaming of his muscles, Jafar pulled his staff free and swung at the closest mamluk's head. It made contact, and the head came off with a sickening _pop_. The other mamluks ceased their attacks and watched it roll away. Jafar seized his chance and bolted, hobbled slightly by a pain in his leg. The mamluks gave chase soon enough. Jafar ran, swinging the staff behind him to cause damage, until at last he could move no more. Collapsing next to what looked like a normal sand dune, he closed his eyes and waited for the mamluks to take him.

Nothing. Three seconds past, and all Jafar heard was odd hissing noises. When he dared to open his eyes and look up, he saw that the mamluks were keeping their distance from him and the sand dune, a spark of fear flickering in their otherwise dead eyes. Slowly, they backed away until Jafar could see them no more. Even when they were out of his line of sight, he stayed curled up by the sand dune until dawn broke, part of him wondering why the mamluks seemed to be so frightened of it and the other part saying that it didn't matter so long as they stayed away. When his leg no longer felt as though it was being jabbed at with a hot poker, Jafar set out again. The pain was still a deep ache, but he forced himself onward all the same, ignoring the feeling of lightness in his head.

Night had fallen once more by the time Jafar reached his old home. His injury made going in through the window next to impossible, so he would have to chance the front door. It was unlocked, much to his surprise, and he cautiously went inside and made his way to Nasira's bedroom. Though he could see at a single glance that she wasn't there, Jafar stepped inside, unable to pull his eyes away. At some point, a dark vanity table had been added to the décor. Small amounts of makeup dotted its smooth surface, and a jewelry box rested in the corner, its open top exposing its glittering contents. The closet door was open just enough to catch a glimpse of the silky-looking dresses that lay within.

It wasn't a child's room any longer but a woman's. Looking at it, Jafar suddenly felt very old.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jafar spotted a multicolored blur, looking as though it had been hastily shoved beneath the bed. Curious, he kneeled down and carefully scraped it out, his dark eyes widening when he saw what it was.

Nasira's staff. Or at least the pieces that were still intact. Jafar picked one up with a shaking hand – the remnant of the zigzag top. There was no possible way this level of destruction could have occurred by accident. Nasira would have never done this, so that left just one option…

Tariq. Tariq had found out about Nasira's magic. Was that why he hadn't tried to help her?

"I always knew you'd come back one day."

Jafar slowly turned upon hearing the cold voice and flinched at what he saw. His father was standing in the doorway, arms folded and pale eyes glittering with malice. One side of his face had been burnt recently, leaving charred skin in its wake.

"Nasira." Jafar stood up, gripping the piece of his sister's staff as tightly as he could without damaging it further. "Where is she? What have you done to her?"

"I've done nothing wrong. She left of her own accord."

"Liar!" Jafar spat.

"Remember who you're talking to, _boy_," Tariq snapped back.

"I _saw_ you! You just stood there while she coughed up blood! How could you just stand there and do nothing?"

For a moment, Tariq froze, eyes wide with something almost like shock.

"How do you –?" A smirk. "Your witchcraft, I suppose? You shouldn't trust that it will always be able to assist you. _She_ thought it could help her as well." One hand went to the burnt half of his face. "I corrected the little temptress soon enough."

"Temptress?" Jafar echoed, vaguely realizing that his throat had gone dry. "What do you mean by calling Nasira that?"

"I should think it would be obvious. She tempted a man."

"Who?"

Tariq remained silent. He didn't need to speak. The glint in his eyes said all that needed to be said. Jafar's mind grappled for a response, but there wasn't a curse strong enough to properly reflect his horror.

"Why?" he managed to croak. "Why would you do that to her?"

"Don't make a martyr out of her," Tariq hissed, looking annoyed by the emotional display. "She brought it on herself. Every bit as corrupted as you are." A sadistic grin crossed his face. "Just like Lamya before she choked on her filthy blood."

There was a flash of gold, and the snake staff came down on Tariq's face, sending him to his knees with a cry of pain. Jafar squeezed the staff so tightly that it hurt his hand.

"Don't you dare speak of them that way," he growled. "Don't. You. _Dare._" He grabbed Tariq's neck and forced him upright. An ache was beginning to blossom in the front of his head. "Now, tell me where Nasira is, or I'll do far worse."

"I wouldn't know." Tariq's gaze was level and cold. "As I said before, she ran away when I tried to punish her for her behavior. If that's all you came for, I'd appreciate it if you left. Now, before you begin to agitate me more than usual."

The pain was becoming more intense. Spending the day in the hot sun without either food or water had taken its toll. Tempting though it was to stay and make Tariq pay for his actions, Jafar knew that he needed to get out of the house – fast. After tucking the pieces of Nasira's broken staff in his pocket, he stood up, provoking a rush of dizziness, and left as quickly as his body would allow. His mind was torn between two goals: finding Nasira and getting water. In the background, there was a shout that might have been directed at him, but he couldn't make out anything specific. The darkness of unconsciousness was beginning to close in. Try as Jafar might to resist it, the darkness won.

It always won.

* * *

><p>"– and he just collapsed right there, Your Majesty."<p>

"You did the right thing, Baqir. I would expect nothing less from my captain of the guard."

"Actually, Your Majesty, it's Razoul you should be thanking. It was his idea to bring the boy back."

"Whoever it was, he's lucky you were quick to act. Look, he's waking up now."

Jafar forced his eyes open and found himself staring up at four expectant male faces. Immediately he drew back with an alarmed, undignified yelp, sending his head colliding with the headboard and making him aware of the fact that every part of his body hurt.

"Where am I?"

"The palace, dear boy," one man replied in an almost obnoxiously cheerful voice. He was short and stout, dressed all in white with bright, childlike eyes. "My guards, Baqir and Razoul –" He gestured in turn to a muscular man who seemed strong enough to break a neck with a single squeeze and a youth barely the same age as Jafar, "– came across you lying in the bazaar and brought you here for treatment. Fahim has been looking after you."

He pointed Jafar in the direction of an elderly man in plain robes who offered him a nod of acknowledgement.

Jafar's thoughts were beginning to connect.

"Am I in the presence of the sultan of Agrabah?"

"Indeed you are."

More was said, but Jafar didn't hear any of it. A sudden rage, startling in its potency, was coursing through his system. Here was the man who had ignored Lamya, who had played a role in leading her to an early grave, no matter how unintentionally.

"And what might your name be?"

Fahim's question snapped Jafar back to reality.

"I am Jafar Samara." Jafar inclined his head – the only sort of bow he could manage given the current circumstances – and shifted his attention to the Sultan, unable to resist adding, "I believe you once met my mother, Your Highness."

The Sultan suddenly looked horribly uncomfortable, something which inspired a kind of vindictive pleasure within Jafar.

"Er, yes – eight years ago, wasn't it? How is she?"

"The disease took her six years ago, Your Highness."

The Sultan had the grace to look forlorn. He opened his mouth, presumably to offer condolences, but it was Fahim who spoke.

"You haven't yet said what led you here," he observed, brown eyes boring into Jafar's and giving the younger man the feeling that his soul was being examined. Quietly, he recounted his story, starting with Lamya's death and ending with the faint.

"– and so just as I had resolved to find my sister, I felt lightheaded and succumbed."

"Did you _really_ escape an evil sorcerer?" Razoul whispered, his eyes wide with something akin to reverence. Despite the circumstances, Jafar found himself biting back a grin as he nodded.

"Oh, you poor boy!" The Sultan clapped a hand on Jafar's shoulder, sending a fresh wave of pain through his aching body. "Have no fear, we'll set everything right. Now, judging from your story, you've nowhere to go, is that right?"

"Yes, but I intend to find permanent living quarters once I'm well –"

"Do you know anything about medicine?"

"Yes, quite a bit," Jafar replied. Some of his mother's medicinal knowledge had indeed rubbed off on him.

"Your Majesty," Fahim interjected. "May I ask what this has to do with anything?"

The Sultan grinned.

"Haven't you been talking about talking on an apprentice? Someone to help with the physician duties until we can find a proper replacement? Here's the perfect solution! Unless one of you objects, of course," he added hastily.

While Jafar's silence might have been seen as being overcome by the Sultan's generosity, it was really in confusion over it. Surely this wasn't a common practice? He searched the older man's face for some hint of motivation and found it in his eyes.

Guilt. The guilt of knowing that you had been able to do something about a problem and did nothing. Knowing that while you couldn't undo all of the damage that had been done, you were going to do everything in your power to try.

"It would be an honor, Your Majesty."

Fahim nodded to show his consent.

"Wonderful!" Beaming, the Sultan turned to Baqir. "Now there's just one thing left."

"Are you certain that guards can be spared for this task?" Baqir inquired warily.

"Of course." The Sultan waved a pudgy hand in dismissal. "From the reports you give, you've just about wiped out Agrabah's crime."

Jafar managed to stifle a derisive snort. Clearly there had been quite a few changes since he first had left.

"Very well." Baqir looked at Jafar expectantly. When the latter merely blinked in reply, he asked, "Do you expect us to find your sibling without a proper description?"

Only now did it truly hit Jafar. When the Sultan had spoken of setting things right, he hadn't been kidding. Jafar gave Nasira's description readily, and he couldn't help but observe how Baqir's face changed as he spoke, an unmistakable gleam of recognition forming in his eyes. His excitement built, and he hoped against hope that this would end quickly.

"Have you seen her?"

"Not to my knowledge," Baqir said with a frown. "However, I encounter many people on my patrols, so it's entirely possible. I assure you that if I do, you'll be the first to know."

Jafar's resulting scowl wasn't entirely from simple disappointment. He was so certain that he hadn't been imagining the look in Baqir's eyes when he'd described Nasira. And he'd been so quick to deny ever coming across her, not even pausing to think it over…

_Nonsense,_ his mind admonished. _Ridiculous nonsense. What reason would Baqir have to lie?_

"Well, I'm certain it won't take long," the Sultan reassured them. "Not with –"

A loud wail split the air. Jafar very nearly shot out of his skin, calming only when he saw that Baqir, Razoul, and Fahim didn't seem to be affected by it. The Sultan, on the other hand, quickly excused himself and dashing off in the direction of the cries. Baqir and Razoul soon left as well, leaving Jafar alone with Fahim.

"That would be the princess," the older man remarked in reply to Jafar's unspoken question. "The Sultan insists on caring for Jasmine with minimal help from nurses. And speaking of nursing, lie down and rest. You're of no use to anyone if you remain injured."

Jafar did as he was told.

"If you don't mind me asking, what did the Sultan mean when he spoke of finding 'a proper replacement'?"

Fahim sighed and ran a hand over his eyes.

"Well, I suppose I might as well be the one to tell you."

He turned his back to Jafar and began mixing together an elixir of sorts.

"There were many people angry with His Majesty after word of the possible isonia cure broke out. One person was…" He paused to collect himself, "was angry enough to want to take action. Six months ago, shortly after the birth of Princess Jasmine, a man was able to sneak into the palace and slip a potent poison into the sultana's drink. All the blood – Sayyida didn't deserve that. No one did."

A full minute went by before Fahim spoke again.

"Needless to say, everyone was devastated. Sayyida's death… I suppose you could say that it was something of a wake-up call, if you want to sound calloused. The Sultan lifted the ban on isonia, and cures were dispersed throughout Agrabah. It was quite effective. The previous physician was released for incompetence just a week later."

"Oh," was all Jafar could say at first. Some of his earlier disdain for the Sultan faded, replaced by pity. To have to watch a loved one die was something he wouldn't wish on anyone. Well, except Tariq and Destane, but Jafar doubted they had ever loved anyone. "But then wouldn't you be the replacement?"

Fahim managed a weak chuckle.

"No. Officially, I'm the grand vizier. I just happen to have studied medicine before taking my position."

"Forgive me, I didn't mean to offend –"

"You didn't." Fahim handed Jafar the finished elixir. "I've had to reset some of your joints, but the best way for it to be effective is if you rest. This should put you to sleep."

Jafar took the offered liquid and was soon consumed by dreamlessness once more.

* * *

><p>"Merciful Allah, what happened to you?"<p>

"Thief," Razoul grunted, limping to a cot. "We chased him to the edges of the city, had to jump over a few roofs – OW!"

"The mighty Razoul is brought to a halt by his medicine?" Jafar raised an eyebrow and dabbed some more ointment on the gash, smirking when Razoul reddened slightly. "So," Jafar tried to keep his voice casual, "before this thief came, did you see anything… unusual?"

"We haven't seen her, Jafar. I'm sorry."

Jafar scowled and reached for a roll of bandages. Four years. Four grueling years, and there was still no trace of Nasira. He couldn't understand it. How could one woman be so difficult to find?

_Unless she doesn't want to be found,_ a nagging voice in the back of his head whispered. _Come now, Jafar, you must know it's the truth by now. No one's seen her in four years – how many times have you scoured the bazaar for her? Face it. She's gone._

Before Jafar had a chance to contradict the voice in his head, the Sultan's cheerful voice rang out through the medical ward.

"Ah, Razoul!" He stepped inside and clapped the younger man on the shoulder. "Baqir's just gotten through telling us of your heroism."

While the two spoke, a flash of blue caught Jafar's eye. He looked up from Razoul's wounds and found the four-year-old princess standing in the doorway, watching him with wide, curious brown eyes.

"Hello, Jasmine." He tried to keep his tone friendly. "Are you feeling better?"

Jasmine shrank away when he addressed her, ducking behind the doorway so that only her eyes were visible, and put a hand over her mouth to cough. It took quite a bit of effort on Jafar's part to keep his frustration from showing. Even after all this time, Jasmine didn't quite know what to make of him. To some degree, he could understand why Jasmine would be wary of him – he certainly wasn't the most likable-looking person there was, and he was about the only person in the palace who bothered to discipline her properly – but he was nice enough to her otherwise. Didn't that make any difference?

The Sultan glanced up and saw the exchange.

"Come here, Jasmine. Come say hello to everyone."

Jasmine didn't move. The Sultan sighed and gave Jafar an apologetic look.

"She's still not feeling well."

They both knew that this was only half of the problem, but Jafar nodded anyhow, trying to hide his confusion. The medicine he'd given her yesterday should have gotten rid of her cough by now.

"I'll find Fahim."

"No need." The older man appeared seemingly from nowhere, startling his apprentice. "Come, let's find out what the matter is."

A second examination revealed nothing different, so all Fahim could do was give Jasmine a double dose of the medicine. When both princess and guard had been tended to, Fahim called Jafar into the hallway for a more private discussion.

"The Sultan had previously arranged to go on a goodwill trip of sorts to Getsistan –"

"'Previously arranged'? What changed?"

"If you'd cease your interruptions, I could tell you."

"Right." Jafar lowered his eyes, embarrassed. "Sorry."

"As I was saying, the Sultan had arranged to go to Getsistan, but with the princess's sudden illness, he's sending me in his place."

"Meaning…?"

"Meaning that you'll be filling in for me while I'm gone. Try to contain your enthusiasm," Fahim added dryly when Jafar's eyes widened. "Don't worry; Agrabah has few serious problems, and I'll only be gone for ten days at the most. I'm sure nothing can happen in that time."

* * *

><p>On the fourth night of Fahim's absence, Jafar awoke to loud, uncontrollable sobbing. Raising his head from the desk he'd fallen asleep at, he quickly spotted the source – the Sultan was running into the medical ward as fast as his stubby legs would allow, clutching Jasmine in his arms. In the dim candlelight, Jafar could see traces of vomit and tears on her face. Alarmed, he rose and went to them. From the Sultan's hysterical stammers, he determined that the princess had woken her father up complaining of stomach pain – pain that was apparently so great that she couldn't stand up – and had vomited soon after.<p>

The information confirmed what Jafar had already begun to suspect – Jasmine had contracted a virus and a bad one at that. That would explain why the medicine he had given her for her cough had been ineffective – he was attacking just _one_ of the disease's components when he needed to strike the lethal heart.

"Don't worry, Your Highnesses," Jafar said in the most soothing voice he could manage, trying in vain to calm the terrified royals. "The cure should be easy enough to make."

But when he went to get the necessary ingredients, he found himself missing two key ones – mint and zanjabil.

_Fine time to run out,_ he snarled internally, casting an anxious glance to Jasmine and the Sultan. _All right, just stay calm. Don't panic them further._

"Sire." He pulled the Sultan aside and lowered his voice. "We're missing two of the ingredients for the cure."

"_What?"_

"Shh." Jafar glanced pointedly at Jasmine. "We have to be calm for her, do you understand?"

The Sultan took a breath and nodded weakly.

"Now, I know of a place in the bazaar that will have them, and I can be there faster than any of the guards. In the meantime, I need you to keep Jasmine calm and awake. Take her mind off the pain."

"How?"

"Any way you can," Jafar replied, barely able to restrain himself from hissing in frustration.

Without another word, he turned and made for the stables as quickly as his feet would carry him, choosing the swiftest horse – a dark stallion called Khalid – for his mount and setting his sights on the bazaar. As he had predicted, the stall had both the herbs he so desperately needed. Once they were in his possession, Jafar released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. There. Everything was going to be all right –

In the shadows, a flash of dark red caught his eye.

Jafar's head whipped around so quickly that he heard bones crack, and his dark eyes were met with a similar pair watching him from behind a crumbling wall. Something eerily similar to hope rose in his chest.

_Nasira._

He couldn't prove it, but he knew somehow that it was his sister. He opened his mouth to call out her name, but the eyes vanished as quickly as they had come. On instinct, Jafar moved to follow her as the image of Jasmine's pain-filled face forced itself onto his mind's eye. He froze, teeth gritted in frustration, and looked down at the herbs. In a single second, his decision was made.

Jafar turned Khalid back towards the palace and tried to ignore the voice in his head that branded him a traitor.

* * *

><p>Once the medicine had begun to take effect, Jafar shooed the teary-eyed Sultan from the medical ward, saying that Jasmine needed rest if she was to fully recover. After close to an hour of staring at him in silence, Jasmine at last drifted off into what seemed to be a peaceful sleep.<p>

Jafar's wasn't nearly so pleasant.

_He was back in the Land of the Black Sands, stuck in the dungeon, and he could hear Destane's footsteps echoing down the hallway, coming to punish him. Panic. In his desperation, he tried to pry the door open, but it was locked. Of course it was locked. The room seemed to be getting smaller every second._

_All of a sudden the footsteps stopped and the door opened, revealing not Destane, but Nasira._

"_Thank Allah you're safe," Jafar wheezed, eyes wide with relief. He stepped closer to her. "I had feared –"_

_With a sharp slap, Nasira sent him to the ground._

"_You abandoned me," she hissed. "You left me alone with _him. _Why, Jafar? You knew he was a monster. You knew what he was capable of. Why did you let him hurt me?"_

"_Nasira, I – I never intended to –"_

"_But you did," Nasira said quietly. "You did. Tell me why you did it, Jafar. That's all I want to know now. Why did you leave me alone? Why?"_

_The single word echoed in Jafar's mind over and over again. He opened his mouth, wanting more than anything to tell her that he hadn't meant for any of this to happen, but only blood came out. The walls had crept closer while he was distracted, and now they pressed against his body, squeezing him dry…_

For the second time that night, Jafar rose from his desk in a panic. Body shaking, he took in his surroundings and tried desperately to reassure himself that it had all been just a nightmare. Nothing to worry about. He was perfectly fine.

_But Nasira isn't,_ his mind goaded.

Moonlight spilled into the room from the window, bathing everything in its silver glow. In it, Jafar could see that Jasmine was still fast asleep, and for a moment he envied her. Quietly, he made his way to the window and found that it faced the city.

She was out there somewhere, and he would not be at peace until he knew she was safe once more.

_Sleep well, Nasira. Wherever you are._

* * *

><p><em>Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.<em>

"Princess." It took all of Jafar's self-control to keep his voice patient and calm. "Why don't you play with something quieter, hmm?"

Jasmine frowned at him, but luckily for his sanity, she ceased throwing her ball against the wall. Jafar watched her reach for a small pile of animal figurines provided by her father, and he let out a small sigh of relief before turning back to his task.

For the past three days, Jafar had been painstakingly mapping out the entirety of Agrabah, both from memory and the brief excursions he was allowed to take when not watching Jasmine. Though the virus seemed to have passed, he was still required to watch over the little princess while she remained in the medical ward. Had the circumstances been different, Jafar wouldn't have minded having to do this (well, not as much), but at the moment all he wanted was to be able to escape and return to the city.

_All right, Nasira was here._ Jafar drew a small "X" over a spot on his map. _Now, there's a cluster of hovels not far from there. Perhaps she's staying –_

"Grr…"

Suppressing a frustrated growl of his own, Jafar again looked up from his makeshift map to check on Jasmine. She was attempting to stack her figurines one on top of the other, but they kept falling down. Jafar spotted the problem immediately – she was stacking them the wrong way. Jasmine, however, saw only that things weren't going her way, and she was steadily becoming angrier. Her cheeks had started to turn red, something that Jafar recognized as a sign of an incoming temper tantrum. Having neither the energy nor the patience to deal with it, he strode to her bedside.

"Here." Before Jasmine's disbelieving eyes, Jafar turned the small figurine ninety degrees and stacked another on top of it. This time, it stayed up. "Like that, okay?"

Jasmine nodded, still looking awed; Jafar had never played with her before. She mimicked his earlier movements and glanced back at him expectantly. Jafar stacked another figurine, and Jasmine did the same. On and on it went until a fanfare jolted them from the game. Jafar went to the window to see what was happening.

"Fahim's here," he announced. A great grin broke across Jasmine's face. She threw her blankets aside, very nearly toppling the animal tower, and ran from the medical ward, calling the vizier's name over and over. Jafar followed after her at a much more dignified pace. When he arrived at the palace gates, Jasmine was at Fahim's feet, bent over something he couldn't see.

"Aw, he's so cute," she cooed, and Jafar craned his neck just enough to see a small tiger cub nuzzling her ankles. "What's his name?"

"Whatever you want it to be," Fahim replied. "He's yours now."

Jasmine beamed.

"Rajah," she said brightly, picking the newly-named cub up and receiving a lick in return. The princess giggled. Jafar shifted his attention back to Fahim.

"Welcome home."

Fahim nodded in reply, and Jafar realized that the older man was holding a covered cage in one hand. He seemed eager to reveal its contents and quickly set the cloth aside to reveal a squat little parrot with bright red-and-blue plumage. Jasmine seemed as pleased with this addition as Jafar was unimpressed. Still keeping a tight hold on Rajah, she stuck one finger through the bars of the cage and stroked the parrot's head.

"Hello."

"Awk, hello, awk!"

Everyone but Fahim jumped back in surprise. The old vizier chuckled at their reactions.

"I take it you're as impressed with Iago as I was. He's quite the mimic."

Jafar only nodded, dark eyes fixed on the parrot. Perhaps he had been wrong…

* * *

><p>Later that day, Jafar sat in the courtyard, still going over his map when a loud screech caught his attention. His focus shifted to the menagerie, where the chaos seemed to be taking place, but he saw only red and white blurs. He rose and went to take a closer look, stopping dead as a harsh, grating voice reached his ears.<p>

"Beat it, ya buzzards! Scram!"

Jafar's eyes widened in recognition. Wasn't that…?

_No. It can't be._

But it was. Taking refuge on the menagerie's highest perch and yelling abuse at his attackers – the small, angelic-looking white birds that the Sultan and Jasmine so loved – was Iago. Yelling. Not mimicking. _Yelling._

_What in the name of…?_

Jafar was at the menagerie in two strides, determined to find out what was going on. Fending off the birds with his staff – about the only thing it was good for now, he thought bitterly – he grabbed Iago and pulled him to safety.

"How did you do that?" he demanded.

The only response was a blank stare.

"Cut the act! I heard you speak!"

"Awk! Crazy man! Awk! Crazy man!"

"I'll put you back in the menagerie," Jafar threatened.

"All right, you got me!"

Iago wriggled free from the human's hands and instead chose to perch on his shoulder, but not before Jafar caught a mutter of "Jerk."

"Well?" he hissed. "Are you going to answer my question or aren't you?"

"Give me a minute, would you – you almost strangled me! Say, anyone ever tell you you've got really bony hands?"

"My threat still stands."

Iago glared at him, then raised and lowered his small shoulders in a shrug – another thing, Jafar noted, that he shouldn't have been able to do.

"It's always been this way. Some birds fly south, I – awk! Fly south! Awk!"

Seconds later, the soft sound of footsteps reached Jafar's ears, and he craned his neck to find Fahim approaching.

"The Sultan's just gotten through telling me of your exploits," the older man said. He elaborated, "Being able to tell that it was a virus that Jasmine had caught and brewing the cure before it could get any worse."

"Yes, well." Jafar shifted from foot to foot. "It's what anyone would have done."

"I couldn't figure out what was wrong with the princess." Fahim reached over and put a hand on his apprentice's unoccupied shoulder. "And I must say, I'm quite proud of you for being able to."

Proud. Jafar blinked at the word. It had been quite a long time since anyone had used it in reference to him. He didn't know what to say to it – somehow a simple "Thank you" didn't seem sufficient. Fahim appeared to understand. With a small nod, he started to move away, then turned back to look at Iago.

"There's no need to hide your talent from me," he observed. "I knew of it when I first laid eyes on you."

A small grin crossed his face at the surprised look Jafar and Iago shared.

"I've studied many things in my day. Not all of them were bound in the realm of politics and medicine."

And off Fahim went, leaving Jafar and Iago to look at one another in uncertainty.

* * *

><p>"Would you stop pacing like that? You're making me dizzy!"<p>

"They're late," Jafar muttered to himself, completely ignoring Iago's complaints. In protest, the parrot flew from his shoulder and perched on Fahim's – the vizier having a much more stable position sitting on the fountain's edge.

The three of them had been like this for the last ten minutes or so, waiting for the latest patrol to return – Jafar wanted to see if there had been any headway in the search, Iago was trying to get away from the Sultan (apparently he found some entertainment in force-feeding the parrot stale crackers), and Fahim had his own reasons. Reasons which he didn't share with Jafar, something that the younger man found as confusing as it was annoying.

After what seemed like an eternity, Razoul and several other guards appeared in the courtyard. Fahim stood up so quickly that Iago fell from his shoulder and landed in the fountain with a _splash._

"Where's Baqir?"

The vizier's tone was sharper than Jafar had ever heard before, and Razoul seemed startled by it.

"He told us he was going to do one final sweep of the city, sir."

Fahim scoffed and turned away, muttering under his breath. Once he had fished Iago out of the fountain and determined that there was nothing new to report, Jafar was quick to follow – something which, he noted with mild surprise, was not as difficult as it once was.

"Hey, what was all that about?" Iago hissed once they were out of earshot of the guards. Though Fahim ignored them, Jafar was able to step in front of him and realized that something was wrong with the vizier's right leg – covered though it was by his long robes, it appeared to be dragged.

"Fahim, you've known me for nine years and Iago for five. Whatever you tell us will be kept in the strictest confidence, _won't it, Iago?_"

This was followed by a pointed look at the aforementioned parrot, who nodded impatiently and leaned forward, eager to hear the secret. Fahim's eyes searched Jafar's face for traces of deception.

"This is not to be repeated to _anyone._ Do you understand?"

Even when Jafar and Iago nodded, Fahim seemed reluctant to reveal his troubles. His eyes darted around, and despite the fact that they were alone, he would not say a word until they were in the tower Jafar had taken for his own.

"In the first place, it is imperative that you understand that I would not say these things if I didn't think I was correct. And believe me, I pray I'm wrong." Fahim's voice was low and deathly serious. "For some time now, I have observed certain… changes in Baqir. He takes solo patrols almost every night. He always reports that there was no activity, yet they go on much longer than necessary, and whenever he returns, he has more coins than when he left – much more. I asked him about it once, and he didn't have an answer."

Jafar had observed this. It was commonplace for Baqir to buy drinks for all of the guards, and yet he always seemed to have plenty of money in the morning. He had never thought about it too much until now.

Fahim heaved a heavy sigh, as though explaining all of this tired him.

"I have been in the city. There are many who shiver at the mention of Baqir's name. People who, by all appearances, are hard-working and law-abiding – people who would have _no reason_ to fear him. Why do they, then? Such actions are reserved for criminals, and if these people are criminals, why haven't they been arrested?"

"Fahim, what are you saying?"

"Gentlemen, I fear that Baqir is abusing his power."

Jafar didn't know what to say at first. True, he wasn't close to Baqir, but the captain had always seemed to be nothing short of honorable. On the other hand, he knew Fahim wasn't the type to hurl wild accusations around at random. If he was sure of it, there had to be _something_ going on.

"What do you propose we do? Tell the Sultan?"

"No." Fahim shook his head. "He and Baqir have been friends since he became captain. The Sultan won't wish to believe that someone he trusts could be capable of such things, no matter who's saying it. The evidence is too flimsy – he has to be caught in the act and… well, it would be different if either of us had magic, then we could just use my hourglass (Jafar filed this comment away for further use), but… I'm not as young or fast as I used to be."

Fahim lowered his eyes, ashamed of his aging. Jafar tentatively reached out and patted his shoulder.

"Don't worry. Iago and I would be more than happy to assist you."

"Hey! I didn't agree to that!"

As usual, Iago went ignored.

"Thank you, Jafar," Fahim said quietly. "This means a lot to me." He faced his apprentice with a serious expression. "Tomorrow evening, when the guards go on their patrol, follow Baqir and observe what he does."

"Doesn't anyone care what the parrot wants?"

"No."

* * *

><p>From the shadows of the deserted bazaar, yet another complaint broke through.<p>

"How long do we have to keep doing this?"

"Until Baqir returns to the palace," was Jafar's reply, significantly less patient than it had been the first five times the question was asked. "And would you sit up and stop talking? You're supposed to be a regular parrot."

"But I'm so bored!" Iago whined, reluctantly pulling himself upright. "It's almost dinnertime!"

Jafar's stomach rumbled, and he tore his eyes away from Baqir to look at Iago. He hated to admit it, but he was starting to think that this was all for nothing. They'd been out here for two hours and all they'd seen Baqir do was walk around the bazaar, buy an apple, and eat it so slowly it was almost painful to watch.

"All right, Iago, how about this? We'll wait until dinner, and if nothing's happened by then, you can go."

"Really?"

"As long as you tell Fahim to put something aside –"

"Hey, look!"

Jafar turned back to Baqir just in time to watch the captain duck into a nearby alley. He exchanged a glance with Iago and rushed to follow. A cloud flitted over the moon at that moment, coating everything in darkness and making it impossible for either of them to see what was happening. Jafar swore under his breath and now put his ears to work. By some unspoken agreement, neither of them dared to move closer – Baqir could break their necks with little to no effort, and if he thought he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't, he would probably have few qualms about doing just that.

There was a sound like the rustling of fabric, and after a period of silence, Baqir spoke.

"Now, let's see what else you have for me."

Jafar raised an eyebrow and shared another look with Iago. Had Fahim been right after all?

Coins clanged together, and the sharp sound of a slap made Jafar and Iago jump.

"This isn't nearly enough! What's wrong with you?"

There was another loud noise. Baqir's voice lowered to the point where it was no longer audible, but there was no mistaking its malicious intent. The tiniest sliver of moonlight trickled down into the alley, allowing the duo just enough brightness to see the captain of the guard leaving it. Frantic, they ducked behind the wall just as Baqir reentered the street, licking blood from his lips and wearing a look that was a strange cross between annoyed and self-satisfied. The cloud moved away a little more, and Jafar could see that whoever Baqir had been talking to was still there. A woman, slumped over on the ground, her hands and long hair covering her face and shoulders trembling with silent sobs. Tiny flecks of blood dotted the sand in front of her.

"Iago." Jafar's voice was tight with anger and left no room for argument. "Keep following Baqir, and meet me back at this spot."

Iago obeyed without question – he was too disturbed to kick up a fuss now. Once his friend was out of range, Jafar approached the woman. Hearing him, she stumbled back into the darkness, clearly terrified. Jafar couldn't say he blamed her.

"No, it's all right! It's all right. I promise, I won't hurt you."

In the dim light, Jafar could see that the woman had lowered her hands to her sides. Encouraged by this, he continued talking to her.

"I just want to help, but you have to come out of there first."

This proved unnecessary. At last, the moon tugged itself free of the cloud, spilling its light over the entire alley and exposing the woman. Long black hair, an angular face, and dark eyes so similar to his own…

Vaguely, Jafar felt his knees buckle beneath him, forcing him into the sand.

"Nasira?" he croaked.

_No… Allah, please, no. Don't do this to her._

But nothing could change the sight before him. Although thin by nature, his sister had become little more than a walking skeleton in a ragged red dress – he was certain that if he were to look, he would have been able to see a good deal of her bones. Purple bruises were blossoming around her neck and wrists, and there was a red mark on one tearstained cheek from where she'd been struck. Blood lingered on the corner of her mouth, and her once-bright eyes were hollow.

While Jafar assessed her condition, Nasira slowly edged closer to him until they were nearly touching. She put a shaking hand to his cheek, as though to reassure herself that this was real, before wrapping her arms around him in a fierce embrace. Jafar reciprocated and realized with horror that he could feel her ribs.

"What's happened to you?"

When Nasira didn't answer, Jafar reluctantly pulled away to look her full in the face. She was biting her lip, downcast eyes filled with shame and humiliation.

"Won't you speak to me?"

Nasira shook her head and tapped her fingers to her throat.

"You can't?" Jafar guessed, wiping the blood and tears from her face. She nodded and etched "spell" into the sand just as Iago returned, fluttering over the siblings.

"Jafar, Fahim was right! You won't believe what I saw Baqir…"

His eyes drifted to Nasira, and for the second time that night, the parrot was stunned into silence. The two stared at each other, silently sizing each other up. After a moment of hovering, he landed on her shoulder, hiding a wince at the boniness of it, and nuzzled her cheek. The tiniest of smiles crossed Nasira's face, and she ran her finger over the top of his head.

Millions upon millions of questions raced through Jafar's head, but at the moment his main priority was to get his sister to safety. Then he could satisfy his curiosity.

Before he could open his mouth, Nasira reach into her pocket and came up with a familiar onyx-and-silver necklace, still bright and gleaming like new – Lamya's necklace, which she placed in the center of his palm.

"Nasira, I can't –"

She pressed the necklace into his hand more forcefully. After a moment, Jafar nodded and tucked it into his pocket.

"Come with me, Nasira." Jafar took her hand and helped her up. Iago flew to his shoulder. "We'll go back to the palace and –"

Nasira tugged her hand away abruptly and shook her head, dark eyes wide with fear. Jafar didn't have to think hard to know why.

"He won't hurt you, I promise. I won't let anyone hurt you again."

Nasira back away from her brother, and before he could stop her, she bolted. Jafar and Iago gave chase, but Nasira was more familiar with the streets of Agrabah than they, and it didn't take long for her to vanish into the night.

* * *

><p>"<em>Filthy son of a jackal!"<em>

"Ow! – Jafar, what are you – ow! – what's the – ow, enough!"

Baqir grabbed the top of Jafar's staff before the younger man could hit him with it again. There would be bruises on his face later – the thought gave Jafar a rush of fierce pleasure.

"How does it feel, Baqir?" he hissed, eyes narrowed in hatred. "Not so much fun when you're the one on the ground, is it?"

"What _are_ you talking about?"

"You've known where Nasira is this whole time! You had to – how else would you be able to attack her?" Jafar pulled his staff free and pointed it threateningly at Baqir. "Well, those days are over! Now the Sultan will see you for the monster you are!"

Baqir didn't even bat an eyelid.

"You're insane," he said coldly, brushing sand off his clothing. "And even if you weren't, _I_ hold the Sultan's favor. He won't believe you."

"We'll see about that!"

Baqir smirked but made no move to stop Jafar as the latter tore off to find the Sultan. He located the monarch in the throne room and wasted no time in telling him what had transpired, omitting Iago's involvement.

"Well. That's – that's quite a story," was all the Sultan said at first. "Tell me, Jafar, did you actually _see_ Baqir do any of this?"

Some of Jafar's initial confidence faded.

"No, Your Highness, it was dark. But I heard him."

"And Nasira? Did you hear her as well?"

"No, she –"

"Then how do you know it was Baqir?"

Jafar clenched his fists and replied as patiently as he could, "Once Baqir had left the alley, I went inside and saw her. She –"

He felt a pang at the memory of his sister lying battered and broken in the sand.

"She was covered in bruises and had been rendered mute, but I knew it was Baqir's doing."

"But you didn't _witness_ it," the Sultan repeated. "If no one saw it directly, then I'm afraid there's nothing I can do."

Jafar felt the world fall out from under him.

"How – nothing you can – of course there is! Have him arrested! Make him tell you where she is!"

"Jafar." The Sultan's voice, meant to be soothing, served only to irritate the younger man further. "If no one saw it take place, there's a chance that a mistake was made. It would be a terrible thing to arrest an innocent man for something he didn't do. You said yourself that it was dark and the voice wasn't close. Isn't it possible that you mistook the voice for Baqir's?"

"No." Jafar's teeth gritted together in frustration. "I followed him into that alley myself, you incompetent fool!"

The last part slipped out by mistake, but he refused to back down. Besides, it wasn't as though it wasn't true.

"Now see here –!"

"How can you expect _me_ to see when you're too blind to realize what's going on right in front of you?"

Ignoring the Sultan's sputtering, Jafar turned on his heel and left the throne room. He would be punished for that, he was certain of it, but the knowledge didn't take away the longing to throttle the pudgy monarch until he was as beaten as Nasira. The thought made him wince, and he sank to the cool marble floor, a mixture of emotions racing through him – anger, frustration, fear, and most of all an overwhelming feeling of helplessness. Nasira had been _right there_, close enough for him to touch, and yet she was still out on the city's streets, still vulnerable to Baqir and those like him. He couldn't protect her. What kind of brother was he?

Jafar didn't acknowledge the approaching footsteps until he heard Fahim's voice accompanying them.

"I've put aside some food for you. I could have it brought to your tower if you want."

"No, thank you. I think I've lost my appetite."

Fahim kneeled down beside his apprentice. "You'll torture yourself if you keep thinking about it," he said gently. "We'll get what we need to make the Sultan understand, but first you need some sleep. Understand?"

With a vague nod, Jafar pushed himself up off the floor and went to his tower. Iago was curled up on a pillow, trapped in a light and uneasy sleep. Jafar didn't pay much attention to the parrot, instead grabbing a spell book from the shelf and flipping through it. Nasira had indicated that a spell had been the cause of her muteness – perhaps if he could find it, he could reverse its effects.

He found it near the back of the third book and quickly absorbed the details. The spell offered near-complete soundlessness and was apparently common amongst prisoners of war due to the fact that it could only be cast on oneself and removed by the castor. Remembering Nasira's shattered staff, Jafar felt his heart sink lower. This just kept getting worse. He might have been able to fix it if he'd still had his magic, but with it being blocked… it was impossible.

The knowledge, instead of making him slip into a depression as he'd been in moments before, seemed to light a fire under him. Anger had begun to set in, and Jafar was determined that Nasira wouldn't suffer alone. There would be vengeance, for her and anyone else Baqir had harmed. He took another book from his shelf and began studying its contents carefully. At some point, Iago briefly awoke, saw Jafar reading, and went back to sleep.

If he'd looked hard enough, he would have seen that his friend's reading material was a book of poisons.

* * *

><p><em>Almost done.<em>

Encouraged some by this thought, Jafar stirred his concoction faster, willing it to turn the deep red that would signify its readiness.

He'd spent a month on this, choosing, making, and refining the poison until it was as potent as he could make it. It would be painful – a sharp burning sensation followed by blood in the lungs – and fast as well, working in just ten minutes. All it would take was one little slip…

Finally, the poison turned a deep, opaque red. Jafar grinned and carefully poured it into a waiting vial. The poison could blend in with wine, something that he was heavily relying on.

It was all part of the plan. Jafar would pour the poison into Baqir's wine and wait in the shadows until it had been drunk. Then he would get the captain of the guard alone and offer him a trade: Nasira's location for the antidote.

Of course, Baqir didn't need to know that there _was_ no antidote.

Tucking the vial into his pocket and looking around for anyone approaching, Jafar stepped out of his tower and went down to the dungeon, where the guards had a small room to themselves. In addition to brewing his lethal mixture, he had spent the last month learning every detail about Baqir's routine that was possible to learn. From this, he had gathered that the guards would soon be coming back from their patrol and that, despite the fact that they had most likely been drinking at some tavern, they would have wine waiting for them in their room. Baqir always sat at the head of the table and drank from the same goblet. It would be child's play to slip him the poison.

Ignoring the damp smell that the mildew-infested dungeon walls gave off, Jafar descended down the stone staircase and made a sharp left to the guards' room. After making sure no one was coming, he ducked inside. There were the goblets, each one filled to the brim with red wine just as he had predicted. Once he had again ascertained that he was alone, Jafar uncorked the vial and emptied its contents into Baqir's goblet, noting gleefully that the poison was indistinguishable from the wine before stepping out of the room and returning to the palace. He had no sooner stepped back into the fading light than the voices of the guards – most prominently, Baqir's – reached his ears, and his grin widened.

_Perfect._

"Jafar?"

Jasmine's voice brought Jafar out of his thoughts. He looked down to find the nine-year-old princess blinking up at him. The ever-faithful Rajah stood by her side, teeth bared in a silent snarl at Jafar.

"Father wants to talk to you."

Jafar carefully masked his scowl. Of course the old fool would choose now to speak with him. "Very well. We'll just find Fahim and –"

"Didn't you hear me?" Jasmine frowned. "Father wants to talk to _you._ Just you. In the throne room."

Jafar blinked in surprise. That was certainly new. On the occasions when he had needed to speak with the Sultan, Fahim had always been present. The only exception Jafar could think of was when he was in Getsistan.

There was a shuffle of footsteps, and suddenly Baqir was standing in front of them as the other guards filed down the staircase. Jasmine smiled at them, but Jafar's narrowed, hate-filled eyes locked onto Baqir's and refused to leave. The corners of the captain's mouth twitched upwards in an amused smirk.

_Keep laughing, jackal, and enjoy it while you can._

The stare-down lasted for about a minute, ending only when Jafar saw another guard hand Baqir his goblet. He froze, torn between his audience with the Sultan and fulfilling his plan.

"Jafar, come on." Jasmine gave his hand an impatient tug. "It's really important."

Could he salvage the plan if he wasn't around to interrogate Baqir? Most likely. He had found Nasira on his own once, and he could do it again. Perhaps once she had heard of Baqir's death, Nasira would know that she was safe and try to come to him.

"Jafar!"

Reluctantly, Jafar broke his eye contact and started down the hall to the throne room, Jasmine and Rajah following close behind. He caught a glimpse of Fahim going in the opposite direction and turned his head just in time to see the older man approach Baqir and Razoul. Jasmine did the same.

"Fahim used to play with me, you know," she remarked quietly, her pace slowing. "He doesn't anymore. Well, not as much, at least. Do you know why?"

The question was so out of the blue that for a few moments, Jafar had no response.

"Well, he's getting older, princess. Surely you've noticed that?" was what he eventually came back with. "Besides, he's busy."

The last part was only partially true. While Fahim was still the grand vizier, he had slowly begun leaving more and more tasks to Jafar since his return from Getsistan. The latter had found that matters of Agrabah's welfare came easily to him. Easier than to the Sultan at any rate – Jafar was certain that he could rule Agrabah better than its "rightful" monarch. The old fool didn't even realize that there was poverty in his kingdom.

"But aren't you supposed to help him?"

Jasmine stopped walking and looked at him expectantly, waiting for an answer. Jafar nodded.

"Yes, but even so it's a lot to do."

"It sounds boring," the princess said, seeming to have forgotten about her father in favor of playing with her hair. There was something odd about her tone, as though she were probing for a specific answer. It occurred to Jafar that Jasmine would have to deal with those things were she to become queen. Perhaps she wanted to figure out what that would be like. If so, it would make her far more progressive that the Sultan.

"It can be a bit tedious," he admitted. Jasmine's face fell, confirming his suspicions. "However, ultimately you have to understand that it helps improve life for those outside the palace walls. Such things come with being a ruler." He paused. "And grand vizier."

Jasmine raised an eyebrow at that. "You _want_ to be grand vizier?"

"Well… yes."

Before Jasmine could reply, a cry of "Fahim!" filled the hallway. Alarmed, Jafar turned and found the elderly grand vizier lying on the floor at the other end of the hall, Razoul kneeling beside him.

"Go get your father," Jafar hissed to Jasmine. The Sultan would be able to do little in this situation – he simply needed to get the princess out of the way. Whatever was about to happen, he didn't want her to see it. Without waiting to see if the princess obeyed, he ran down the hall to his mentor's side.

"What happened?"

Razoul looked unusually pale. "We were just talking and –"

Fahim suddenly sat up and began to cough violently, bony hands clutching his throat. Blood had started to ooze down the corners of his mouth. Seeing it, Jafar felt the color drain from his face. It couldn't be…

Just as quickly as it had begun, the coughing ended. Fahim's body went slack and fell backwards, his head landing in Jafar's lap with a muffled _thud_.

"Is he…?"

Not trusting himself to speak, Jafar only nodded. The grand vizier was dead, killed by the poison meant for Baqir. It was as though the universe was playing a cruel joke on him. With a shaking hand, he reached out and closed Fahim's eyes. A memory of Lamya crossed his mind, and he quickly shoved it back.

Footsteps echoed across the hall, presumably those of Jasmine and the Sultan, but Jafar paid them no heed. No one spoke for a while. No one seemed able to.

"Jafar?" Razoul cleared his throat to banish the quiver from his voice. "I don't know if it will help, but I saw him have a few sips of wine before… this. He said it was all he'd had all day." There was a pause, and the young guard's next words sounded reluctant. "Baqir gave it to him."

"What?" Jafar's head shot up. In the background, there was a gasp. "Baqir? You're sure?"

His mind was spinning. Baqir gave Fahim the poison. Had he known what was in the wine or had it been a friendly gesture to ease suspicions?

"Yes." Razoul edged away slightly, startled to have Jafar in his face so suddenly. "I saw it with my own eyes. It looked like he had taken a drink from the goblet as well." A bitter look crossed Razoul's face. "But I guess he faked it."

Jafar didn't reply. His attention was fixed on the Sultan, standing there as though frozen, his face a mask of resignation. The realization that he had fought for so long had at last set in. Catching Jafar's eye, he flinched before inclining his head towards the dungeon entrance.

Jafar gently laid Fahim's head on the floor before following Razoul down the staircase. The two entered the guards' room only to find it empty. The combed the dungeon halls but found nothing.

"He must have heard us talking and gotten away while he could," Razoul remarked in what seemed like an effort to break the tense silence. Jafar opened his mouth to reply, trailing off when he noticed something odd. One of the cells was open. They were always meant to be closed, even when there were no prisoners inside. Curious, he entered the cell and looked around. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary and there didn't seem to be any way to get out of the palace from here, but still something felt wrong about it.

Just as Razoul entered the cell, Jafar's dark eyes darted to a particular patch of stone on the wall, and he was surprised to find that he could see what appeared to be a red light through the cracks. Going over for a closer look, he saw that the stone seemed to be loose. The pressure of his hand on the stone was all it took to make it move, but much to Jafar's surprise, a good chunk of the wall came with it, revealing a small space just large enough to crawl through. It lead down to a second set of stairs and was lit by torches above.

Jafar and Razoul exchanged a glance and nodded in unison. They'd found how Baqir had escaped; now they just need to figure out where he had gone. One after the other, they slipped into the narrow passageway and went down the staircase as quickly as they could. Even so, it seemed like an eternity before they saw faint slivers of daylight again. Climbing out of a wooden trapdoor, they found themselves surrounded by the desert sand.

"We're not that far from Agrabah," Razoul noted, shading his eyes from the merciless sun. His gaze grew thoughtful. "How many more of these passageways do you think there are?"

Jafar was too busy cursing Baqir's name to reply.

* * *

><p>Jafar usually enjoyed moments of silence, but now, waiting for the Sultan to speak with him, he found it almost unbearable.<p>

Fahim's funeral had ended just an hour ago. Jafar had spent most of it with his eyes downcast, Iago his only company – just as he was now, wing wrapped around his neck in the only form of comfort he could give. He was careful to steer clear of the other mourners, more specifically Jasmine, who hadn't stopped glaring at him since Baqir's escape. She thought he was lying – after all, he had expressed a desire to be grand vizier mere seconds before Fahim's poisoning.

What hurt was that she wasn't entirely off. Despite Iago's (and to a lesser extent, his own mind's) attempts to convince him to the contrary, Jafar knew that he was at least halfway responsible for Fahim's death, and although he could never admit it, he accepted it. Too bad that didn't make it any easier.

The door to the Sultan's chambers creaked opened, and the monarch's voice floated out.

"Come in, Jafar."

Jafar obeyed, narrowly avoiding a double-take at the older man's appearance. Drained of cheer, the Sultan's face had taken on a haggard look, and Jafar was suddenly reminded of just how old he was. He didn't even try to give Iago a cracker.

"You're probably wondering why I called you here, yes? First and foremost, I wish to apologize."

Jafar said nothing.

"You were right. You were right about everything, and I was too blind to see it. Now it's cost me one of my dearest friends." Here the Sultan paused to blink back tears. "You must understand, I thought I was doing what was best."

It took all of Jafar's self-control not to snap.

_What was best? How was it best to ignore a near eye-witness account of violence and let the accused man walk around as though nothing was wrong? How was it best to ban one of the ingredients of a lifesaving antidote as people died all around you? I have lost far more than you as part of the repercussions that came from what you thought was best!_

"Certainly you did, Your Highness," was what came out instead. Jafar forced his voice to be low and soothing. He couldn't afford to lose his temper again. "None of that matters now. We just need to find Baqir."

Jafar's words seemed to have a positive effect on the Sultan. Wiping away his tears, the older man smiled for the first time since Fahim's death.

"Yes, I'm going to organize that soon."

_You haven't even sent guards out to look for Baqir?_

Jafar masked his disbelief and anger with a question.

"Sire, it appears you're in need of another captain of the guard. Might I suggest Razoul? He seems perfect for the job."

"Oh, certainly! You would know better than I in that regard." The Sultan seemed oblivious to Jafar's growing annoyance. "Speaking of which, there's another reason I wanted to speak to you. I had wanted to talk about this yesterday, but… well…" He trailed off for a second before continuing, "I want you to be my new grand vizier. Fahim would like that, I think."

Only now was Jafar caught off-guard. Despite what he had said to Jasmine the day before, he had never really expected to be made grand vizier, holding onto the naïve thought that Fahim would simply continue to live and occupy the position.

Perhaps sensing that he was torn, the Sultan added, "You've certainly proven your worth as far as I'm concerned."

Though that endorsement meant very little to Jafar, he knew that it was true.

"Thank you, Your Highness." He bowed so low that Iago nearly fell from his shoulder. "I would be honored."

"Wonderful!"

He began to prattle on, with Jafar only half-listening. Straightening up, he suddenly realized that Iago was no longer on his shoulder and caught sight of the parrot perched on the Sultan's nightstand. Something gold was clutched in his beak.

"Iago! Put that down!"

The parrot glared at him, but quickly quailed under Jafar's more intense gaze. He set the gold object back down and fluttered back to Jafar, muttering under his breath. Before he could scold Iago further, Jafar found himself straining to get a closer look at the object that had been so fascinating to the parrot. His heart clenched.

It was one half of a small, golden scarab covered in small, exquisite rubies.

_"The most beautiful among them was a tiny golden scarab studded with glittering rubies…"_

_"…the sorcerer divided the scarab into two pieces and hid them across the far reaches of the desert."_

"Sire." Jafar struggled to keep the excitement out of his voice. "What is that? That gold scarab there? Where did you get it?"

"Hmm?" The Sultan followed his new grand vizier's pointing finger. "Oh, that's an heirloom. It's been in the family for years."

"May I see it?" Noting the traces of reluctance in the Sultan's face and ignoring the confusion on Iago's, Jafar added, "It reminds me of a story my mother once told me."

Guilt flashed in the monarch's eyes, and he was suddenly quick to give consent. Jafar couldn't get to the nightstand fast enough. Holding the scarab up in the moonlight, he realized that it was exactly as Lamya's story had described.

And if the scarab was real – Jafar shivered in delight at the thought – didn't that mean that the Cave of Wonders (and more importantly, the lamp within) was real as well? If he could find this lamp, he would never have another problem in his life, ever. But first he needed to find the scarab's other half.

"Sire, do you know where the rest of the scarab is?"

When he received no reply, Jafar turned to face the Sultan and repeated the question, a bit more forcefully this time. For a few seconds, there was more silence. Just as Jafar was about to lose his patience, something bizarre occurred. The Sultan's brown eyes seemed to be glowing red, and when he spoke, his voice sounded… odd, almost forced.

"The other half was stolen many years ago. No one has seen it since."

At first, Jafar was too surprised by the Sultan's sudden change in attitude to comprehend the answer he'd given.

"Jafar, what'd you do to him?" Iago hissed.

Jafar didn't respond. He glanced down and saw that the rubies on his snake staff were glowing just as the Sultan's eyes, and that the two seemed to be in direct alignment with one another. Suddenly, his mind took him back to another day in his childhood, when he'd accidentally hypnotized Nasira. The only sensible solution was that it had happened again.

"Hellloo?" Iago began knocking on the side of his head. "Come in, Jafar!"

Jafar swatted the parrot away before replying, "It would appear that our dear Sultan has been hypnotized."

"You've been holding out on me!" Iago pointed an accusing wing at his friend. "Why didn't you do this before?"

"I didn't know I could," Jafar admitted, and it was true. He had always assumed that the then-fledgling ability had been taken from him when Destane eradicated his magic. Thinking about it now, however, he recalled Lamya mentioning that hypnotism seemed to be a hidden property of the staff itself – was that why it had survived? Perhaps it had just needed time, time enough to properly develop and become strong enough to be used as it was now.

_Or perhaps it just needs a victim simple-minded enough to be taken by it._

Tucking the scarab piece into his pocket, Jafar smirked at that thought. The Sultan was a fool. His knowledge of his own kingdom was spotty at best, most of his political duties were delegated to others, and his poor judgment frequently got the people in Jafar's life hurt, or worse. He didn't deserve to rule over _anything_, much less Agrabah.

Now, Jafar, on the other hand…

He had clawed his way out of the Land of the Black Sand and landed in the palace. He had proven himself an asset time and time again. If anyone deserved to have power over Agrabah, it was _him_.

And once he got his hands on a certain lamp, everyone would know it.

* * *

><p>There it is. Not too sure about the last few paragraphs, but I hope it was worth the wait.<p>

Just for the record, Nasira's not my creation. She's a character from a video game called _Disney's Aladdin in Nasira's Revenge_, in which she attempts to revive Jafar. It goes about as well as you'd think.


End file.
